A myriad of blue-white bubbles made a veil across the current down in below, and he saw this vaguely, although the sun was so low that the water was lighted but ill at this hour. The yeast of the water did not hold him up well—he sunk deeper, still deeper, he knew not how far down. Blindly his arms reached out, feeling every way. They touched nothing—the thin, oxygenated fluid hardly could be felt at all. He rose, swam on across the stream, on, out, indeed, he knew not where. He rose just beyond the foot of the main chute, having been down longer than he dreamed a man might stay and live. But when he found himself still able to swim and still able to see, when he had flung the water from his eyes, he still saw nothing near him, nothing on the black pool. He was alone. He could hear the cries of a woman. He could not go back. It was all he could do to reach the further shore. He landed well toward the foot of the pool, with difficulty pulling himself out upon the ledge there. But as he turned once more, nothing but the black and the white water met his gaze. James Haddon was gone. Where? He dared not now look across to the woman whom he saw wringing her hands. He ran to the head of the pool, toward the flat rock where lay some charred embers of many earlier fires. Eagerly, intently, he looked out and down upon the water for some sign of what he sought. There was some sort of sign! Deep below the surface, it seemed to him he saw some long dark object, floating, swinging, rising and falling, but not going down on the current. It hung as though held. Was it some log? Joslin knew it could not be. Drawing his breath in deep and full, he sprang again far out, feeling with his arms, with his feet, but at first touching nothing. Suddenly, just inside the ridge of white water, there came up against his body from below a heavy blow, as from some object flung upward by a giant hand. It was the body of James Haddon, swaying there. It was swaying strangely, for some unknown reason. It was James Haddon’s free hand had smitten Joslin in the face as though contemptuous of him even now. But Joslin caught at the hand, tugged at it. The body would not give—it swayed in the current, but it still was held! Joslin knew now what it meant. Slowly, gasping, he turned once more to his side of the river, and once more climbed out upon the ledge. He was growing weaker, but there was yet much to be done. He dared not look across the river now. In truth, Marcia Haddon’s face most of the time was buried in her hands—only she raised it once in a while to see what new terror was here for her. She saw this strange man, apparently insane, on the farther side of the river, once more pull himself up on the ledge, once more run up to the head of the pool, once more stand there, at the edge, hesitating.