Water-logged as he was, and cramped in his overcoat, he made a violent bound towards the floating cape, lunged twice, caught it at the second try, and pulled it eagerly—­alas! too eagerly.  He felt the tug of Lily’s weight only just long enough to be sure that she was there, and then—­the fastenings gave way, and she slipped through!  The empty garment swam up to him on the edge of a new wave, which clapped it over his face like a gigantic plaster.

Oh, this was dreadful!  She would be rescued eventually, of course—­ amongst them they would not let her drown, not if skill and courage had any show at all—­but the fact that she was in danger could no longer be ignored.  She was a little delicate thing, already overcome, and precious time was wasting, when every second was of the most stupendous consequence.  With a frenzied gesture, Guthrie shook off the cloak, spluttered, spat, and made a dive to intercept her as she went down, wondering as he did so whether breath and strength would hold out if he missed her and had to follow her to the bottom.  The swing of the swell was awful, and the darkness of the blind night too cruel for words.

“If only I had this cursed coat off!” he dumbly sobbed.  “If only I could get rid of these damned laced boots!” Bad words would have been forgivable even had he not been a sailor.

He missed her, groped desperately, to the verge of suffocation, and came up to cough, and groan, and pump breath enough to take him down again.  It would have cost five minutes to get his clothes off, and there was not a single second to spare—­now.

“See her?” he shrieked.

“Ne’er a sign,” Bill Hardacre shouted.  “But we’ll catch her when she rises.  Take a turn o’ the line round you, sir, so’s we can haul you in—­”

But there was not even time for that in the frightful race of these vital moments.  She was gone, and she must be found, and there was but her husband to look for her.  The two other men were few enough for the safety of the launch as she was then situated; and besides, Hardacre could be more useful to Lily above water than below.  The neighbouring ships lay undisturbed, putting off no boats to help.  In all that band of lights ringing the black welter of the bay, like stars out of the Infinite, shining calmly upon an abandoned world, not one was moving.

Guthrie Carey gave a last look round, identified the window of what was to have been his home, where the fire was burning brightly, the little supper spread, good Mrs Hardacre watching for them at the door—­heard the landlady’s cousin wailing, “Lil!  Lil!”—­and again plunged under, arms wide and eyes staring, and heart bursting with despair.  Everything in him seemed bursting—­an agonising sensation—­as his overstrained lungs collapsed, and the power of his strong limbs failed him; then everything seemed to break away and let in the floods of Lethe with a rush—­confusion and forgetfulness and a whirl of dreams, settling to a strange peace,