ing broadside and might possibly guide it between the rocks below.
This one hope was destroyed as quickly as it was born. The canoe
crashed against the first rock. A smother of foam rose about it and he
saw Jeanne suddenly engulfed and lost. Then she reappeared, almost
under him, and he launched himself downward, clutching at her dress
with his hands. By a supreme effort he caught her around the waist with
his left arm, so that his right was free.

Ahead of them was a boiling sea of white, even more terrible than when
they had looked down upon it from above. The rocks were hidden by mist
and foam; their roar was deafening. Between Philip and the awful
maelstrom of death there was a quieter space of water, black, sullen,
and swift--the power itself, rushing on to whip itself into ribbons
among the taunting rocks that barred its way to the sea. In that space
Philip looked at Jeanne. Her face was against his breast. Her eyes met
his own, and In that last moment, face to face with death, love leaped
above all fear. They were about to die, and Jeanne would die in his
arms. She was his now--forever. His hold tightened. Her face came
nearer. He wanted to shout, to let her know what he had meant to say at
Fort o' God. But his voice would have been like a whisper in a
hurricane. Could Jeanne understand? The wall of foam was almost in
their faces. Suddenly he bent down, crushed his face to hers, and
kissed her again and again. Then, as the maelstrom engulfed them, he
swung his own body to take the brunt of the shock.

He no longer reasoned beyond one thing. He must keep his body between
Jeanne and the rocks. He would be crushed, beaten to pieces, made
unrecognizable, but Jeanne would be only drowned. He fought to keep
himself half under her, with his head and shoulders in advance. When he
felt the floods sucking him under, he thrust her upward. He fought, and
did not know what happened. Only there was the crashing of a thousand
cannon in his ears, and he seemed to live through an eternity. They
thundered about him, against him, ahead of him, and then more and more
behind. He felt no pain, no shock. It was the SOUND that he seemed to
be fighting; in the buffeting of his body against the rocks there was
the painlessness of a knife-thrust delivered amid the roar of battle.
And the sound receded. It was thundering in retreat, and a curious
thought came to him. Providence had delivered him through the
maelstrom. He had not struck the