The Death Shot: A Story Retold. Reid Mayne

not see her after. She has gone to the bottom. Merciful heavens! O Helen! where are you?”

      The people are puzzled by these incoherent speeches – both the passengers above, and the boatmen on the under-deck. They stand as if spell-bound.

      Fortunately, one of the former has retained presence of mind, and along with it coolness. It is the young planter, Dupré. He stays not for the end of her speech, but springing over the guards, swims towards the spot pointed out.

      “Brave fellow!” is the thought of Jessie Armstrong, admiration for her lover almost making her forget her sister’s peril.

      She stands, as every one else upon the steamer, watching with earnest eyes. Hers are more; they are flashing with feverish excitement, with glances of anxiety – at times the fixed gaze of fear.

      No wonder at its being so. The moon has sunk to the level of the tree-tops, and the bosom of the river is in dark shadow; darker by the bank where the boat is now drifting. But little chance to distinguish an object in the water – less for one swimming upon its surface. And the river is deep, its current rapid, the “reach” they are in, full of dangerous eddies. In addition, it is a spot infested, as all know – the favourite haunt of that hideous reptile the alligator, with the equally-dreaded gar-fish – the shark of the South-western rivers. All these things are in Jessie Armstrong’s thoughts.

      Amidst these dangers are the two dearest to her on earth; her sister, her lover. Not strange that her apprehension is almost an agony!

      Meanwhile the steamer’s boat has been manned, and set loose as quickly as could be done. It is rowed towards the spot, where the swimmer was last seen; and all eyes are strained upon it – all ears listening to catch any word of cheer.