But this passed, and he sank again; darkness held him; he did not move. But light will creep through the scum of a tarn; it will brighten dull, still water; it will plunge its shining arm deep into the muck and bring up those living things which have only heard the first faint whisperings of the world. A sound once more lifted Anthony from the pit; again he lay at the dream level, and the sound broke urgently over him. It had a dim, mournful insistance; he could not bear it; all the trouble God permitted seemed in the sound; and his heart raced in pity and desire. His spirit struggled heavily; but his body had no footing in the world; it lay like the dead. He suffered keenly. The call broke in shrill waves through the gray place of sleep. He was wanted! Somewhere--some one needed him. Bitterly he strove upward; he fought as a dark angel might have fought, under the foot of Michael; he raved and cursed and fought upward from level to level; the vagueness fell from him like rent veils. He burst through the gates of sleep. His body leaped up. It was mademoiselle who was calling. "Anthony! Do you hear, Anthony? Oh, do you hear me?" "Yes," he said. "Yes, I hear." Like a dull-witted bear he pawed at the latch of his door. "What is it?" "They are on deck," she said. "I am locked in my cabin. I have been calling you, but you would not waken." "Who is on deck?" The door would not give, and he wrenched at it savagely. "Who locked you in?" "Tarrant. And Blake. They came aboard in the night. They have taken charge of the ship." Anthony's wits came to an edge; he stopped wrenching at the door, and stood, calling its possibilities to mind. "What of Captain Weir?" he said. "Where is he?" "I do not know," said mademoiselle. Anthony fixed upon the spot where the door had been fastened, and laid his weight against it. The nails started, and the ironmongery gave way. Then he released mademoiselle, and she was trembling. "I was afraid," she said. "You slept so, you seemed very far away. I was afraid." He held her close to him. "There is rare courage in you," he said. "Call it out; make it stand by you." "I am not afraid now--for myself. But you'll be going on deck. I'm afraid for you." The light was dim where they stood; but he looked into her eyes, and there seemed a fine brightness through the world. "You fear for me because I am your man," he said to her. "Is it so?" "Yes," she said, quietly. He put her hair back from her brow and kissed her there. "I am satisfied," he said. "You belong to me. And, because of that, there is nothing in life that shall harm you." He went into his cabin, and he came out with a brace of pistols; one of them he gave to her. "Stay here," he said, "and keep this by you, in case of need." Then he went to the companion-ladder, and at the foot of it he paused. For there were voices on deck; one of them was Captain Weir's, and it was thick with anger.