Then it was that there came a mighty roller, bigger than any that he had
seen--such a one as on that coast the Kaffirs call "a father of waves."
It caught him in the embrace of its vast green curve. It bore him
forward as though he were but a straw, far forward over the stretch of
cruel rocks. It broke in thunder, dashing him again upon the stones
and sand of the little river bar, rolling him along with its resistless
might, till even that might was exhausted, and its foam began to return
seawards, sucking him with it.
Robert's mind was almost gone, but enough of it remained to tell him
that if once more he was dragged into the deep water he must be lost. As
the current haled him along he gripped at the bottom with his hands,
and by the mercy of Heaven they closed on something. It may have been
a tree-stump embedded there, or a rock--he never knew. At least, it was
firm, and to it he hung despairingly. Would that rush never cease? His
lungs were bursting; he must let go! Oh! the foam was thinning; his head
was above it now; now it had departed, leaving him like a stranded fish
upon the shingle. For half a minute or more he lay there gasping, then
looked behind him to see another comber approaching through the
gloom. He struggled to his feet, fell, rose again, and ran, or rather,
staggered forward with that tigerish water hissing at his heels.
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