A dusky mass flung together on a waning rood of ice,--Wade could see
nothing more.
Weary or benumbed, or sick with pure forlornness and despair, she had
drooped down and showed no sign of life.
The great wind shook the river. Her waning rood of ice narrowed, foot
by foot, like an unthrifty man's heritage. Inch by inch its edges wore
away, until the little space that half-sustained the dark heap was no
bigger than a coffin-lid.
Help, now!--now, men, if you are to save! Thrust, Richard Wade, with
your boat-hook! Pull, Bill, till your oars snap! Out with your last
frenzies of vigor! For the little raft of ice, even that has crumbled
beneath its burden, and she sinks,--sinks, with succor close at hand!
Sinks! No,--she rises and floats again.
She clasps something that holds her head just above water. But the
unmannerly ice has buffeted her hat off. The fragments toss it
about,--that pretty Amazonian hat, with its alert feather, all drooping
and draggled. Her fair hair and pure forehead are uncovered for an
astonished sunbeam to alight upon.
"It is my love, my life, Bill! Give way, once more!"
"Way enough! Steady! Sit where you are, Bill, and trim boat, while I
lift her out. We cannot risk capsizing."
He raised her carefully, tenderly, with his strong arms.
A bit of wood had buoyed her up for that last moment. It was a broken
oar with a deep fresh gash in it.
Wade knew his mark,--the cut of his own skate-iron.
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