As he stirred he
could smell the cold, rotten clay that fouled up into the water. It was
objectionable in his lungs. Still, repelled and yet not heeding, he moved
deeper into the pond. The cold water rose over his thighs, over his
loins, upon his abdomen. The lower part of his body was all sunk in the
hideous cold element. And the bottom was so deeply soft and uncertain, he
was afraid of pitching with his mouth underneath. He could not swim, and
was afraid.
He crouched a little, spreading his hands under the water and moving them
round, trying to feel for her. The dead cold pond swayed upon his chest.
He moved again, a little deeper, and again, with his hands underneath, he
felt all around under the water. And he touched her clothing. But it
evaded his fingers. He made a desperate effort to grasp it.
And so doing he lost his balance and went under, horribly, suffocating in
the foul earthy water, struggling madly for a few moments. At last, after
what seemed an eternity, he got his footing, rose again into the air and
looked around. He gasped, and knew he was in the world. Then he looked at
the water. She had risen near him. He grasped her clothing, and drawing
her nearer, turned to take his way to land again.
He went very slowly, carefully, absorbed in the slow progress. He rose
higher, climbing out of the pond. The water was now only about his legs;
he was thankful, full of relief to be out of the clutches of the pond.
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