"Yes, do come back, Miss Courtland," echoes the only man in the party. "You're near the spring hole. Do come back. It's beastly dangerous." Violet Courtland throws back her head and laughs defiantly, circling ever nearer to the fatal spot. One, seeing but unseen, amid the undergrowth beneath the black pines, takes in the picture--the warm kiss of the frosty air upon the flower-like face, framed so seductively in its winter furs; the curve of the red lips, laughing mischievously; the sparkle in the large clear eyes, as the answer is shrilled back-- "Not for me. I'm light enough to go over even the spring hole itself. Oh--h--!" For, with these words, the ice wave beneath her gliding feet rises and falls like a sheet in the breeze. A crack, and then another--then a horrid shattering sound as of shivered glass. The water, forced through the cracks, spurts upward in blade-like lines, and, with hardly time to utter a shriek, Violet disappears, feet downwards, beneath the surface. A great slab of blue ice, momentarily dislodged, heaves endways upward, then settles down above the head of the girl. The grim mere has literally swallowed its prey. Those who behold are petrified with horror. Full a hundred yards are they from the disaster, but the man skims straight for the spot. He can do nothing, for he is heavy of build, and the ice will give way beneath his weight long before he reaches her. It will only mean one more victim. But almost instantaneously with the catastrophe a startling thing happens. A man dashes from beneath the pines, and with a loud warning shout to the others to keep away, he flings himself upon the ice, and, lying flat, propels himself straight for the deadly spring hole, which is here but a score of yards from the bank. Now he is fighting his way through the heaving, crackling ice--now he disappears as if gives way beneath him. Now he is up again; then once more, with a hiss and a splash and the splintering of glass-like ice, he is beneath the surface again. Those on the bank are turned to stone. Will he--will they--never come up? Ah--h! A head shoots above the surface--two heads! Panting, nearly winded with his terrible exertion and the deadly cold numbing his veins, Piers Lamont is treading water, supporting Violet in a state of semi-unconsciousness; but powerful and wiry as he is, it is all he can do to keep her head above the surface. "Soames!" he shouts, recognising the man, "there are some chopped poles lying there just inside the trees. Run, man, and throw some out. You girls run for help--keeper's lodge the nearest. And yell--yell for all you know how," he pants gaspingly, for the exertion of speech has frightfully sapped his remaining strength.