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Caleb Morton was a very strong man, and though one of his arms was altogether encumbered by his antagonist, his other arm and his legs were free. With these he seemed to succeed in keeping his head above the water, weighted as he was with the body of his foe. But Trow’s efforts were also used with the view of keeping himself above the water. Though he had purposed to destroy himself in taking that leap, and now hoped for nothing better than that they might both perish together, he yet struggled to keep his head above the waves. Bodily power he had none left to him, except that of holding on to Morton’s arm and plunging with his legs; but he did hold on, and thus both their heads remained above the surface.

But this could not last long. It was easy to see that Trow’s strength was nearly spent, and that when he went down Morton must go with him. If indeed they could be separated,–if Morton could once make himself free from that embrace into which he had been so anxious to leap,–then indeed there might be a hope. All round that little inlet the rock fell sheer down into the deep sea, so that there was no resting-place for a foot; it but round the headlands on either side, even within forty or fifty yards of that spot, Morton might rest on the rocks, till a boat should come to his assistance. To him that distance would have been nothing, if only his limbs had been at liberty.

Upon the platform of rocks they were all at their wits’ ends. Many were anxious to fire at Trow; but even if they hit him, would Morton’s position have been better? Would not the wounded man have still clung to him who was not wounded? And then there could be no certainty that any one of them would hit the right man. The ripple of the waves, though it was very slight, nevertheless sufficed to keep the bodies in motion; and then, too, there was not among them any marksman peculiar for his skill.

Morton’s efforts in the water were too severe to admit of his speaking, but he could hear and understand the words which were addressed to him. “Shake him off, Caleb.” “Strike him from you with your foot.” “Swim to the right shore; swim for it, even if you take him with you.” Yes; he could hear them all; but hearing and obeying were very different. It was not easy to shake off that dying man; and as for swimming with him, that was clearly impossible. It was as much as he could do to keep his head above water, let alone any attempt to move in one settled direction.

For some four or five minutes they lay thus battling on the waves before the head of either of them went down. Trow had been twice below the surface, but it was before he had succeeded in supporting himself by Morton’s arm. Now it seemed as though he must sink again,–as though both must sink. His mouth was barely kept above the water, and as Morton shook him with his arm, the tide would pass over him. It was horrid to watch from the shore the glaring upturned eyes of the dying wretch, as his long streaming hair lay back upon the wave. “Now, Caleb, hold him down. Hold him under,” was shouted in the voice of some eager friend. Rising up on the water, Morton made a last effort to do as he was bid. He did press the man’s head down,–well down below the surface,–but still the hand clung to him, and as he struck out against the water, he was powerless against that grasp.