Evan looked very doubtful and offered a somewhat wavering weapon; but he was quickly brought back to his senses by his opponent’s sword-point, which shot past him, shaving his shoulder by a hair.  By this time the waves were well up Turnbull’s thigh, and what was worse, they were beginning to roll and break heavily around them.

MacIan parried this first lunge perfectly, the next less perfectly; the third in all human probability he would not have parried at all; the Christian champion would have been pinned like a butterfly, and the atheistic champion left to drown like a rat, with such consolation as his view of the cosmos afforded him.  But just as Turnbull launched his heaviest stroke, the sea, in which he stood up to his hips, launched a yet heavier one.  A wave breaking beyond the others smote him heavily like a hammer of water.  One leg gave way, he was swung round and sucked into the retreating sea, still gripping his sword.

MacIan put his sword between his teeth and plunged after his disappearing enemy.  He had the sense of having the whole universe on top of him as crest after crest struck him down.  It seemed to him quite a cosmic collapse, as if all the seven heavens were falling on him one after the other.  But he got hold of the atheist’s left leg and he did not let it go.

After some ten minutes of foam and frenzy, in which all the senses at once seemed blasted by the sea, Evan found himself laboriously swimming on a low, green swell, with the sword still in his teeth and the editor of The Atheist still under his arm.  What he was going to do he had not even the most glimmering idea; so he merely kept his grip and swam somehow with one hand.

He ducked instinctively as there bulked above him a big, black wave, much higher than any that he had seen.  Then he saw that it was hardly the shape of any possible wave.  Then he saw that it was a fisherman’s boat, and, leaping upward, caught hold of the bow.  The boat pitched forward with its stern in the air for just as much time as was needed to see that there was nobody in it.  After a moment or two of desperate clambering, however, there were two people in it, Mr. Evan MacIan, panting and sweating, and Mr. James Turnbull, uncommonly close to being drowned.  After ten minutes’ aimless tossing in the empty fishing-boat he recovered, however, stirred, stretched himself, and looked round on the rolling waters.  Then, while taking no notice of the streams of salt water that were pouring from his hair, beard, coat, boots, and trousers, he carefully wiped the wet off his sword-blade to preserve it from the possibilities of rust.

MacIan found two oars in the bottom of the deserted boat and began somewhat drearily to row.

* * *