He left the woman and jumped into the sea.
Down under the cold black water he groped about. He was not an expert
swimmer and diver. He had never been under water so long before, but so
strong had been his impulse to reach the child that he went a good way
on the bottom in the direction in which he had thought he saw the little
body floating. Then he knew that he came up empty-handed and was
swimming on the dark surface, hearing confused cries and imprecations
from the shore. He wanted to dive and seek again for the child below,
but he did not know how to do this without a place to leap from. He let
himself sink, but he was out of breath. He gasped and inhaled the water,
and then, for dear life's sake, he swam to keep his head above it.
The water had cooled his excitement; a feeling of utter helplessness and
misery came over him. So strong was his pity for the little sad-eyed
child that he was almost willing to die in seeking her; but all hope of
finding was forsaking him. He still swam in the direction in which he
thought the child drifted as she rose and sank. It did not occur to him
to be surprised that she had drifted so far until he realized that he
was out of hearing of the sounds from the shore. His own swimming, he
well knew, could never have taken him so far and fast. There was a
little sandy island lying about three hundred yards out.
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