Her head went under; her mouth filled; this time she could not struggle up; her ears rang; her brain burst. But the little fingers on the big throat clutched on. Then she felt herself caught from above--air came, and breath with it--and Ben swore faintly. “Undo your hands, Lena,” said the sergeant. “We’ve got him. You don’t want to hang him before his time.” Another flash of lightning revealed the sea and sky, the docks and the officers, and Ben, purple and breathing hard, stretched upon the wharf. Lena heard the snap of the handcuffs upon his wrists; and then she heard and saw no more. The sergeant touched the girl’s dripping and unconscious figure with a respect never shown to Lena in Windover police circles before. “She might not come to, yet,” he said; “she’s nigh enough to a drowned girl. Get a woman, can’t you, somebody?” “The man’s all we can manage,” replied a brother officer. “Get him to the station the back way--here! Give a hand there! Quick! We’ll have lynch-law here in just about ten minutes, if you ain’t spry. Hark! D’ye hear that?” A muffled roar came down the throat of Angel Alley. It grew, and approached. It was the cry of all Windover raging to avenge the Christian hero whom it learned, too late, to honor. * * * * * “Anyhow, he’ll hang for it,” muttered Lena, when she came to herself in her decent room. Johnny’s mother was moaning over her. Lena pushed the old woman gently away, and commanded the retreating officer, “Say, won’t he? Out with it!” “Well,” replied the officer in a comfortable tone, “a good deal depends. Liquor men ain’t skerce in this county. He’d get twenty witnesses to swear to an alibi as easy as he’d get one.” “Let ’em swear,” said Lena. “I see him do it. I saw him heave the stone.” “That might alter the case, and again it mightn’t,” replied the officer; “it would depend on the value of the testimony--previous reputation, and so on.” Lena groaned. “But I caught him by the arm! I stood alongside of him. I was watching for it. I thought I’d be able to stop him. I’m pretty strong. I grabbed him--but he flung me off and stamped on me. I see him heave the rock. See! There’s the mark, where he kicked me. Then he ran, and I after him. I can swear to it before earth and heaven. I see him fling that rock!” “You see,” observed the officer, “it ain’t a case of manslaughter just yet. The minister was breathing when they moved him.” * * * * * They carried him to his own rooms, for it was not thought possible to move him further. He had not spoken nor stirred, but his pulse indicated that a good reserve of life remained in him. The wound was in the lung. The stone was a large and jagged one, with a cruel edge. It had struck with malignant power, and by one of those extraordinary aims which seem to be left for hate and chance to achieve.