was dizzy and faint, but with a sense of her dreadful responsibility she clung to the oars and did not move her steadfast eyes from the small circle of water beneath which she knew that Stewart lay.
Folsom came up from a dive. "I don't dare," he panted. "The eel-grass—the slimy stuff against my face—it choked me. If Stewart were alive—but—but now I don't dare."
Floyd spoke to Lydia.
"Will you tell me exactly where he went down?"
"The boat's moored," Lydia answered. "I've tried not to let it swing. He must be there—just there. He went down—straight."
She had not moved her eyes; they were resting on the small circle of water that she defined with her oar; and her voice was light and quivering.
Floyd filled his lungs, fixed with his eyes the place where he must strike, and made his dive. Swimming headlong down, he crushed with all speed into the mass of slimy plants. They brushed across his face, forcing him to close his eyes; they wrapped themselves about his arms, his body, his legs with cold, leisurely cruelty; but he kept crowding on his way. Then his hands touched bottom and gripped the tough stalks, and he opened his eyes.
The light was dim among the waving grasses; he could see only for a few inches, and then the mat grew tight and held its secret. His breath was leaving him fast; he turned his head, and there at his hand, face down as he had sunk, lay Stewart.
Floyd seized him under the arms and tried to raise him, but in his death grip he was clutching the tough fibres of the grass. Going upon his knees, Floyd tried to loosen the grip, but his fingers, working in a frenzy, were powerless. In desperation he raised the body, thrust a shoulder under it, and heaved. The strands of eel-grass were uprooted; Floyd clutched a fold of Stewart's bath-
