No glimpse of land could be seen now; the night was around them,—­ night gone mad, and they helpless toys in its grasp.  Helpless?  No! for Roger’s strong arm kept the tiny boat steady, as she drove before the wind.  His face was streaming with rain, his fair hair tossed wildly over his brow, but his look was steadfast as ever, and now and then he glanced at Hildegarde and smiled encouragement.  Bewildered at first, Hildegarde felt no fear, and presently, seeing the quiet confidence of her companion, a wild exhilaration possessed her.  She had read of this kind of thing; it had been a dream, a picture in her mind always; now she was wrapped in the great storm, almost a part of it, borne along on its wings like the birds that beat their wings past her upon the gale.  The lightning, which till now had shaken quivering lances of flame across the black water, a flash, then darkness, then again a flash, now became continuous, playing in lambent flames amid the blackness, lighting up the wild turmoil of wind and wave and cloud.  The thunder rolled without pause,—­overhead, around, beneath them.  Crash! boom! crash!  And all the while the water hissed past them; all the while the wind buffeted and shook them, and the rain lashed their faces with stinging whips.  The frail canoe quivered like a living thing in mortal terror.  What would be the end?

The end came soon enough.  Hildegarde was suddenly brought down from her airy castle of storm-wrapped bliss by hearing Roger’s voice, high-pitched to carry across the uproar, saying with calm emphasis, “Take off your shoes!  We shall very likely go over when we round this point.  If we do, strike out at once, and swim till I get hold of you.”

Hildegarde nodded, and pulled off her low shoes; then she tried to think how it would feel to be flung into this mad water.  The next moment the wind, which had lulled for an instant,—­or had it only recoiled to take a fresh spring?—­the wind rushed out of the darkness, and caught the canoe.  It was a breathless struggle, man against the powers of air and of water.  Hilda saw the powerful arms braced like steel to meet the onset, saw the quiet face set like marble, clenched teeth and frowning brow,—­and saw no more, for here the canoe, having borne all that birch-bark could bear, capsized, and the girl found herself in the black water.

Down, down, down!  Was she going to the bottom?  She struck out blindly, as she had been told, trying to keep her thoughts together.  They said that drowning was pleasant; but she did not want to drown.  Should she ever be able to breathe again?  Her dress clung about her ankles, the water hummed and buzzed in her ears, in her nostrils; but still she swam bravely.  Suddenly she felt a strong arm thrown round her, and in another moment her head was out of water.  Oh, the blessed air of heaven! how she drank it in, in deep, gasping breaths!  Just to be alive, to breathe, was happiness enough.  Roger was swimming strongly and steadily with one arm, holding her with the other.  He caught the paddle in his teeth as it floated by, and at first Hildegarde could think of nothing but how funny he looked, like a great fair-haired dog swimming about.  He had righted the canoe, and now flung the paddle into it, and turned to Hildegarde.  “All right?  Thank Heaven!  Take hold by the bow, and I will tow you ashore.”