I gave the good push or two, and suddenly the arms of the rock were around me.  Tight and close, this time, they hugged me.  They held me fast, like a rude lover, and would not let me go.  My knees and feet were fast, and the walls on each side pressed my cheeks.  My head too was fast.  I could not move an inch forward—­and it was too late to go back!

Panic swept over me.  I felt that my hair must be turning white.  Presently I ceased to struggle.  But the rocks held me in their giant embrace.  There was no need for me to do anything.  I could go on resting there—­it was very comfortable—­till—­

And then I felt something touching my feet, running away and then touching them again.  O God!  It was the incoming tide!  It would—­And then I prepared myself to die.  I suppose I was lightheaded, with the strain and the lack of food, for, after the first panic, I found myself dreamily, almost luxuriously, making pictures of how brave men had died in the past—­brave women too.  I fancied myself in one and another situation.  But the picture that persisted was that of the Conciergerie during the French Revolution.  I was a noble, talking gaily to beautiful ladies also under the shadow of death, and, right in the middle of a jest, a gloomy fellow had just come in—­to lead me to the guillotine.  The door was opening, and I kissed my hand in farewell—­

Then the picture vanished, as I felt the swish of the tide round my ankles.  It would soon be up to my knees—­

It was up to my knees—­it was creeping past them—­and it was making that hollow song in the caves behind me that had seemed so kind to me that very morning, the song it had made to Calypso ... that far-off night under the moon.

I turned my eyes over the sea—­I could move them, at all events; how gloriously it was shining out there!  And here was I, helpless, with arms extended, as one crucified.  I closed my eyes in anguish, and let my body relax; perhaps I dozed, or perhaps I fainted—­but, suddenly, what was that that had aroused me, summoned me back to life?  It seemed a short, sharp sound—­then another, and then another—­surely it was the sound of firing!  I opened my eyes and looked out to sea, and then I gave a great cry: 

“Calypso!  Calypso!” I cried.  “Calypso!”—­and it seemed as though a giant’s strength were in me—­that I could rend the rocks apart.  I made a mighty effort, and, whether or not my relaxing had made a readjustment of my position, I found that for some reason I could move forward again, and, with one desperate wriggle, I had my head through the narrow space.  To wrench my shoulders and legs after it was comparatively easy, and, in a moment, I was safe on the outer side, where, as I had surmised, the aperture did widen out again.  Within a few moments, I was on the edge of the sea, had dived, and was swimming madly toward—­

But let me tell what I had seen, as I hung there, so helpless, in that crevice in the rocks.