The mulatto, who had made such good use of the moment when they were all occupied with the doctor, and was now joyously dividing the flood with sturdy arms, struck out towards the opposite shore. Von Schwanthal could, for a long time, trace the light stripe which the swimmer left behind him in the water. He certainly appeared to have escaped from the hands of mortal avengers; but a greater one watched him; Nemesis stretched forth her iron grasp towards him--he had met his fate.
There are few who can plough their way across the mighty father of the waters--the Mississippi; the current is too strong; a thousand whirlpools exhaust the swimmer, although they may not be powerful enough to suck him down. The Mulatto stemmed the flood with powerful chest, and had already reached the middle of the river; he then turned on his back to rest, and now began again to labour with redoubled exertion.
But this it was which proved fatal to him; he had, from the very first, to escape the still-dreaded shot, over-exerted himself, and now, when fear lest he should not reach the saving shore came to be superadded, it operated cripplingly upon him. His breathing became more laboured, his movements quicker, but also fainter, and it was only the sight of the shore, which constantly advanced more and more near, which yet maintained his spirit. He had now attained the dark line that mirrored the tree tops in the water, yet still the land receded about two hundred yards more.
"Courage!" he faintly gasped, whilst he clenched his teeth as if in grim defiance--"courage! yonder--but a few yards off, life and freedom smile!--courage!" With a strength which he could only borrow from despair, he divided the waters. He had but a few yards more to swim before he could grasp the over-hanging willows of the shore. "Ha! how strong the current rolls along on this side!" He could scarcely support himself above the whirling flood.
"Help!" he cried: Turner must be on this side, and would hear him. "Help!" In vain--twice, already, had he stretched out his hand to a projecting branch, twice had the current's speed sucked him away from under it. Now, again, a saving branch stretched out towards him--with a last exertion of strength, he threw himself upwards and towards it; he clutched the rocking branch which projected far into the river. But, oh! unfortunate wretch, it gave way! it was but a floating reed which had settled there, and that broke in the grasp. The mulatto sank--the waves curled and gurgled above him. He yet clutched the treacherous reed in his hand, and bore it with him into the deep. But there--yet again--as if in the battle of struggling and wrestling life with the silent deep, the dark figure reappeared from its watery grave; yet again it turned its wild defying look up to the bright, silent, friendly moon, that quietly and holily poured down her peaceful light, as well on the passion-torn sons of man, as on the cold, slumbering, earth, and the silver-gleaming stream. Yet again, a wild, blasphemous curse bubbled from the ashen lips of the mulatto, and the convulsed body sank for ever into the unceasingly further-rolling flood, as though nature would no longer suffer that hideous distorted mask to abide further in the wondrous harmony of her forms.
