An instant later his face cleared the water.
For a moment, in the depths of the river, he had realized
what it would mean to die a hypocrite, and to lie dead
under the last abandonment of her tenderness.
But once in the light and air, he knew he should
live to tell her and to recover all he had lost.
Now, at last, he felt sure of himself.
He was not startled. It seemed to him
that he had been through something of
this sort before. There was nothing horrible
about it. This, too, was life, and life was
activity, just as it was in Boston or in London.
He was himself, and there was something
to be done; everything seemed perfectly
natural. Alexander was a strong swimmer,
but he had gone scarcely a dozen strokes
when the bridge itself, which had been settling
faster and faster, crashed into the water
behind him. Immediately the river was full
of drowning men. A gang of French Canadians
fell almost on top of him. He thought he had
cleared them, when they began coming up all
around him, clutching at him and at each
other. Some of them could swim, but they
were either hurt or crazed with fright.
Alexander tried to beat them off, but there
were too many of them. One caught him about
the neck, another gripped him about the middle,
and they went down together. When he sank,
his wife seemed to be there in the water
beside him, telling him to keep his head,
that if he could hold out the men would drown
and release him.
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