He was gone, and through the light veil of the encroaching mists she could see him shearing his way through the leaden-coloured sea.
She remained motionless, her eyes straining after him.

He was swimming easily, with a powerful overhand stroke that carried him swiftly away from the shore.

A little sigh of relaxed tension fluttered between her lips.

At least, he was a magnificent swimmer--he had that much in his favour.
Then her glance spanned the channel to the further shore, and it seemed as though an interminable waste of water stretched between.

And all the time, at every stroke, that mad, racing current was pulling against him, fighting for possession of the strong, sinewy body battling against it.
She beat her hands together in an agony of fear.