His name was called in feeble accents, and he saw a head and an arm floating in the waves between him and the boat. All else was instantly forgotten. With three powerful strokes he reached the spot, and placed one arm tightly about the girl’s waist, while with the other he beat the water furiously. “I will save you, I will save you, Vera—my darling!” he whispered hoarsely. The words came unbidden from his very soul. This moment of common peril had wrung from his lips the confession of a passion that he had cherished in secret for months. The wind forced the boat down toward him, and throwing up his arm he caught the keel and clung there, pressing his precious burden close to his side. Slowly the space between the yacht and the boat widened. They were drifting nearer and nearer to the long, black hull of the Russian corvette. “Better to die now than go back to the mines—back to torture and a living death,” whispered Shamarin across the boat. “Good by, Sandoff. I can’t hold on much longer.” Sandoff could not reply. His own strength was failing, and a deadly numbness was stealing his senses away. The heroic sailor remained mute, faithful to his trust, though a single cry would have brought rescuers to the spot. Suddenly the quick, sharp rattle of oars was heard. The sound came nearer and nearer, and finally a dim object passed close to the drifting boat. It was the gig from the corvette, speeding toward the shore. As the dreaded object disappeared in the gloom, Sandoff still held to the keel, though his arm seemed to be tearing from the socket. With the other arm he fiercely drew Vera to his breast until her cheek was almost touching his. “I love you, I love you!” he cried passionately. “I tell you now, Vera, in the presence of death. Would that God had seen fit to spare us for another and a better life in a land without tyranny and oppression! But regrets are vain. It is sweeter to die this way together than to be torn apart and dragged back to the horrors of Siberia.” His eyes met hers, and he read in their swift, mute glance the echo of his own words. With one hand she drew his head down. “Victor,” she whispered, “you have made death sweet. Its bitterness is gone.” Then their lips met, and as the waves thundered around them Sandoff felt his hand slipping from the boat. A low cry from the sailor roused him, and unconsciously his fingers tightened anew on the keel. The spot where Shamarin had been was empty—the brave fellow had gone down. For him there was an end of toil and suffering. Again that low cry! The seaman was kneeling on the capsized craft, staring ahead through the gloom. “A boat! a boat!” he cried hoarsely. “He is mad,” thought Sandoff. “He sees no boat,” but even as he strained Vera to his breast and felt the icy waters rising higher around him, a dark object shot forward over the waves, and a voice cried, “Sandoff! Sandoff!”