They
were about to die, and Jeanne would die in his arms. She was his
now--forever. His hold tightened. Her face came nearer. He wanted
to shout, to let her know what he had meant to say at Fort o' God.
But his voice would have been like a whisper in a hurricane. Could
Jeanne understand? The wall of foam was almost in their faces.
Suddenly he bent down, crushed his face to hers, and kissed her
again and again. Then, as the maelstrom engulfed them, he swung
his own body to take the brunt of the shock.
He no longer reasoned beyond one thing. He must keep his body
between Jeanne and the rocks. He would be crushed, beaten to
pieces, made unrecognizable, but Jeanne would be only drowned. He
fought to keep himself half under her, with his head and shoulders
in advance. When he felt the floods sucking him under, he thrust
her upward. He fought, and did not know what happened. Only there
was the crashing of a thousand cannon in his ears, and he seemed
to live through an eternity. They thundered about him, against
him, ahead of him, and then more and more behind. He felt no pain,
no shock. It was the SOUND that he seemed to be fighting; in the
buffeting of his body against the rocks there was the painlessness
of a knife-thrust delivered amid the roar of battle.
Pages:
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197