Rollins fortunately did not lose his voice. Rollins bellowed. Rushing out into the hall just as he was, pajamas, nightcap and all, Rollins lifted his voice like a baying hound. In a moment all hands were on deck. My Husband rushed for the dory--George Keets with him, Paul Brenswick, Kennilworth, Rollins! The women huddled on the beach. "Hold on! Hold on!" we shouted into space. "Just a minute more!--Just one minute more!" We might just as well have shouted into a saw-dust pile.--The wind took the words and rammed them down our throats again till we sickened and choked! Young Kennilworth came running. He was still in his white flannels. He looked like a ghost. "There's been some hitch about the oars!" he cried. "Is she still there?" In the flare of our lantern light I turned suddenly and stared at him. He looked so queer. In a moment so awful, it seemed almost incredible that any human face could have summoned so much EGO into it. From those gay, pleasure-roaming feet, it must have come hurtling suddenly--that expression! From those facile self-assured finger tips that were already coaxing the secrets of line and form from the Creator!--From that lusty, hot-blooded young heart that was even now accumulating its "Pasts!"--From the arrogant, brilliant young brain that knew only too well that it had a "FUTURE!"--And even as I watched, young Kennilworth stripped the white flannels from his body. And the pleasure. And the triumph. And all the little pasts. And all the one big future. And he who had come so presumptuously to us to make an infinitesimal bronze replica of the sea--went forth very humbly from us to make a man-sized model of sacrifice. For an instant only as he steadied for the plunge a flash of the old mockery crossed his face. "Of course I'm stronger than the ocean," he called back. "But if it shouldn't prove so--don't forget my Old Man's birthday!" Ann Woltor fainted as his slim body struck the waves. Hours passed--ages, aeons--before the dory reached them! Yet my husband says that it way only minutes. By the merciful providence of darkness we were at least spared some of the visual stages of that struggle. Minutes or aeons--there were not even seconds to spare, it proved by the time help actually arrived. Claude Kennilworth had a broken arm, but was at least conscious. The May Girl looked as though she would never be conscious again. Against the ghastly pallor of her skin the brutal bruises loomed like love's last offering of violets. The flexible finger-tips had clawed themselves to pulp and blood.