Both of the men could swim, but swimming was in vain. Both were strong, and now Pete's strength was as the strength of a madman who chooses death in a very passion for the end of all things. He seemed as if made of fine steel, of whip-cord, of something resilient, tense. There was in him that elasticity which enables the great quinnat to overcome the awful stream of the Fraser in its narrow Cañon. It was with difficulty, with deadly difficulty, that Quin held the wrist that controlled the knife. He knew that he must do that even if he drowned. It was his last thought, his last conscious thought, just as Pete's last thought was to free himself and find Quin's heart. They sank, as they struggled, far below the surface of the flood. Quin held his breath till it seemed that he would burst. His lungs were bursting with blood: his brain fainted for it. He struggled to preserve his power of choice, for it appeared better to be stabbed if even so he could breathe. But even as he fought he was aware in some cool and dreadfully far-off cell of his brain that though he let go he would not yet rise. It was a question of who could last longest. As he was drowning he remembered (and recalled how he had heard the saying) that the other man was probably as bad. He even grinned horribly as he thought this. Then he saw Jenny and the child. The vision passed and he saw the burning Mill. He heard Mac speak, heard the roar of the flames, and the murmur of the crowd. Then he came to the surface and knew where he was, knew that he was alive but at handgrips with Death himself. He sucked in air, filled his lungs and rolled over, and went under once again. When consciousness is past there is a long space of organized, of purposed, instinctive struggle for life left in a man. So it was with Quin. He knew not that he slipped both hands to Pete's right wrist: he was unaware that when they once more rose Pete howled as his wrist snapped. Even Pete did not know it: he knew that he was a fluid part of nature, suffering agony and yet finding sleep in agony, sleep so exquisite that it was a recompense at last for all the woes of the world. And he was all the world himself, one with the river, one with the night and the great darkness which comes in the end to all. Pete sighed deliciously and sank, and rose and sank again, into the arms of one who was perhaps his mother, perhaps his dear Jenny whom he now loved so tenderly. And a blind creature, still unconscious, unknowing, hung on to Pete's wrist. That was what Quin thought. But what he hung to was the boat, capsized but still floating, which had gone down stream with them. He was in a cramp of agony: if he could have let go he would have done so, but something not himself, as it seemed, made him hold on. He still fought with the dead man who rolled below him at the bottom of the river.