“Hold your breath!  God save us!  Now!”

They rose, as if with one will, and stood for an instant, the arms of the younger closely embracing the other as he had directed.

A sliding away from beneath them of the floor on which they stood, as the drop fails under the feet of a felon.  A great rush of air, and a mighty, awful, stunning roar,—­an involuntary gasp, a choking flood of water that came bellowing after them, and hammered them down into the black depths so far that the young man, though used to diving and swimming long distances underwater, had well-nigh yielded to the fearful need of air, and sucked in his death in so doing.

The boat came up to the surface, broken in twain, splintered, a load of firewood for those who raked the river lower down.  It had turned crosswise, and struck the rocks.  A cap rose to the surface, such a one as boys wear,—­the same that boy had on.  And then—­after how many seconds by the watch cannot be known, but after a time long enough, as the young man remembered it, to live his whole life over in memory—­Clement Lindsay felt the blessed air against his face, and, taking a great breath, came to his full consciousness.  The arms of the boy were still locked around him as in the embrace of death.  A few strokes brought him to the shore, dragging his senseless burden with him.

He unclasped the arms that held him so closely encircled, and laid the slender form of the youth he had almost died to save gently upon the grass.  It was as if dead.  He loosed the ribbon that was round the neck, he tore open the checked shirt—­

The story of Myrtle Hazard’s sex was told; but she was deaf to his cry of surprise, and no blush came to her cold cheek.  Not too late, perhaps, to save her,—­not too late to try to save her, at least!

He placed his lips to hers, and filled her breast with the air from his own panting chest.  Again and again he renewed these efforts, hoping, doubting, despairing,—­once more hoping, and at last, when he had almost ceased to hope, she gasped, she breathed, she moaned, and rolled her eyes wildly round her, she was born again into this mortal life.

He caught her up in his arms, bore her to the house, laid her on a sofa, and, having spent his strength in this last effort, reeled and fell, and lay as one over whom have just been whispered the words,

“He is gone.”

CHAPTER X.

Mr. Clement Lindsay finishes his letter—­what came of it.

The first thing Clement Lindsay did, when he was fairly himself again, was to finish his letter to Susan Posey.  He took it up where it left off, “with an affection which——­” and drew a long dash, as above.  It was with great effort he wrote the lines which follow, for he had got an ugly blow on the forehead, and his eyes were “in mourning,” as the gentlemen of the ring say, with unbecoming levity.