He felt the first shock, the second, the third.

He was not thinking of time or distance, but was fighting solely to keep himself between Marette and death.

The first time he failed, a blind sort of rage burned in his brain.
He saw her white body strained over a slippery, deluge-worn rock.

Her head was flung back, and he saw the long masses of her hair streaming out in the white froth, and he thought for an instant that her fragile body had been broken.

He fought still more fiercely after that.