He twisted himself up, freeing himself from the undertow.

Twenty feet ahead of him--thirty--he caught a glimpse of a white arm and then of Marette's face, before she disappeared in a wall of froth.
Into that froth he shot after her.

He came out of it blinded, groping wildly for her, crying out her name.

His fingers caught the end of the babiche that was fastened about his own wrist, and he clutched it savagely, believing for a moment that he had found her.

Thicker and more deadly the rocks of the lower passage rose in his way.