but the girl had been grasped in time, and hauled uninjured aboard the heavier craft.  This had been the object of the attack—­to gain possession of her.  Very evidently I had not been seen, at least not closely enough to be recognized by Kirby.  In a measure this afforded me a decided advantage, provided we ever encountered each other again—­and I meant that we should.  The account between us was not closed by this incident; far from it.  There in that black water, struggling to keep afloat, while being swept resistlessly out into the river, with no immediate object before me except to remain concealed by the veil of darkness, I resolved solemnly to myself that this affair should never end, until it was ended right.  In that moment of decision I cared not at all for Rene Beaucaire’s drop of negro blood, nor for the fact that she was a slave in her master’s hands.  Her appeal to me ignored all this.  To my mind she was but a woman, a sweet, lovable, girlish woman, in the unrestrained power of a brute, and dependent alone on me for rescue.  That was enough; I cared for nothing more.

The intense blackness hid me completely, as I held my head barely above the surface, no longer making any effort to stem the downward sweep of the stream.  Conscious of being thus borne rapidly to the mouth of the river, my only endeavor was to keep afloat, and conserve my strength.  The ceaseless noise of the engine told me accurately the position of the keel-boat, although, by this time, there was a stretch of rushing water between us which prevented me even seeing the hulking shadow of the craft.  Judging from the sound, however, it was easy to determine that the heavy boat was traveling much faster than I, and was steadily passing me, close in against the dense shadow of the southern shore.  With silent strokes I waited patiently, until the steady chugging of the engine grew faint in the distance, and then finally ceased entirely.

I was alone in the grasp of the waters, wrapped in the night silence, both shores veiled beneath the dense shadows; every dim outline had vanished, and I realized that the swift current had already swept me into the broad Mississippi.  Uncertain in that moment which way to turn, and conscious of a strange lassitude, I made no struggle to reach land, but permitted myself to be borne downward in the grip of the water.  Suddenly something drifted against my body, a black, ill-defined object, tossing about on the swell of the waves, and instinctively I grasped at it, recognizing instantly the shell of our wrecked boat.  It was all awash, a great hole stove in its side well forward, and so filled with water the added weight of my body would have sunk it instantly.  Yet the thing remained buoyant enough to float, and I clung to its stern, thankful even for this slight help.