"Tide's leaving her," he explained. "Her back is breaking, is that it?" asked Sir Anthony. The captain nodded. "She won't hold together long after that?" "Probably not," said the captain. Caragh's offer found none but backers when the gravity of the signal was made known. The captain still protested its insanity, but he was persuaded in the end to withdraw his prohibition and do what was possible to start the venture with the best chances of success. The ship was to be taken a little nearer the southern shore to give the swimmer what help could be had from the tide, and the lightest line on board was prepared while Caragh went below to strip, accompanied by a couple of admirers, who insisted on the necessity of his being oiled before entering the water. As he never expected to come out of it alive he had no wish for oil, but did desire urgently to be left alone for the next few moments. He had made his offer from no surge of sympathy, no flush of valour. He was not braver probably than most of those on board, nor cared twopence more than they for the fate of the derelicts. His proposal was but the climax of his morning thoughts. He could endure himself no longer. The wretchedness of his passion would bear no further the thought of the girl he was on his way to meet. Every instant in the day-time, and night after night in his dreams, that splendid presence possessed him to which he had for ever said good-bye. And in the fever of that possession he could not think of a wife. Yet of what else could he think, as every hour brought her nearer, and made sharper for him the shame of her exultant face, and the reproach in her confiding arms. Never for an instant had his tenderness faltered. She was dearer to him than a sister; dearer by all she had given him, by all she was prepared to give; dearer above all by what she believed him to have given her. And it was his tenderness that made unendurable the treachery of his faithfulness, the loyalty of the lie which was to make them one. It was at the worst of such a reflection that death suddenly appeared to him as the escape, the release for them both; for the pledge which he had given and for her trust in his word. Death, a high and honourable end, making a finish to his unprofitable life, leaving her with faith undimmed! At that cold moment of his abasement there seemed nothing better. Given an hour to think it over and he would probably have recoiled from the sacrifice. There was even some measure of recoil in his mind as he went down the reeling ladder to his cabin, though there was no change in his determination. Death had ceased to look attractive; it was simply something for which, like a fool, he had let himself in. Yet under that was a dull indifference to what became of him.