Malcolm submitted. He knew that he could not rival these strokes, and he could better be on the lookout where he was. They swept round a slight bend, and then a cry escaped Malcolm. "Ha! See there!" "Where? What?" "Some one in the water! A woman!" "Make for her—straight." Nigel did not even glance round. "Fulvia!" was in the minds of both, and Nigel was deeply moved; for whatever she might or might not be to him, his love for her was of its kind thoroughly genuine. "It may not be—her," Malcolm uttered. "Take care; not so fast. Now—slacken! Now—here." Nigel looked, drew in his oars, and sprang up, always the first to act. Malcolm kept his seat, balancing the boat, as Nigel leant over and caught something, drawing it nearer—caught a girlish dress. Then they both saw— A still face, pure as alabaster, the eyes closed, the brown hair matted and streaming, the lips peacefully parted! "Ethel! Oh my God!" broke from Nigel. "Ethel!" Malcolm echoed hoarsely. No other sound passed Nigel's lips. He grew pale, but there was no loss of control over himself. With steady balancing, aided by Malcolm, he drew up the slight heavy figure, held in one half-instant in his arms, gazing, then laid it gently down. "Nigel, she can't—can't have been in long. She must have fallen just now. That scream," Malcolm said with difficulty. Nigel made no reply in words. He gave Malcolm one glance, caught up the oars, pointed to the bank, and rowed with fierce energy. A possible landing-place was near, and in less than two minutes they were there. The boat's keel no sooner grounded than Nigel dropped his oars, lifted Ethel once more in his arms, and sprang ashore. He seemed to have unnatural strength. Every movement was rapid and light, as if he did not feel her weight. "The Parsonage?" Malcolm said, and Nigel made a gesture of assent. He had at once remembered the little hamlet Church of Buryfield, not ten minutes distant, with its liliputian Parsonage and gentle elderly Incumbent. "Let me help. You can't carry her all the way." "No;" and Nigel strode on at a frantic pace, his face ghastly. Malcolm kept pace by his side. "She can't be gone. It can't be too late. She was in so short a time," urged Malcolm. "Don't give up hope." He almost lost sight of his own fear and grief in view of his friend's distress, which yet he could not understand. Nigel had not worn that look when they believed the scream to be Fulvia's,—as indeed it was. The idea that Fulvia, not Ethel, had screamed, and that Fulvia too was in danger, did not occur to either of them.