The Survivors

When the Sirdar parted amidships, the floor of the saloon heaved
up in the center with a mighty crash of rending woodwork and iron. Men
and women, too stupefied to sob out a prayer, were pitched headlong
into chaos.

Iris, torn from the terrified grasp of her maid, fell
through a corridor, and would have gone down with the ship had not a
sailor, clinging to a companion ladder, caught her as she whirled along
the steep slope of the deck.

He did not know what had happened. With the instinct of
self-preservation he seized the nearest support when the vessel struck.

It was the mere impulse of ready helpfulness that caused him to stretch
out his left arm and clasp the girl's waist as she fluttered past. By
idle chance they were on the port side, and the ship, after pausing for
one awful second, fell over to starboard.

The man was not prepared for this second gyration. Even as the stairway
canted he lost his balance; they were both thrown violently through the
open hatchway, and swept off into the boiling surf. Under such
conditions thought itself was impossible. A series of impressions, a
number of fantastic pictures, were received by the benumbed faculties,
and afterwards painfully sorted out by the memory. Fear, anguish,
amazement--none of these could exist. All he knew was that the lifeless
form of a woman--for Iris had happily fainted--must be held until death
itself wrenched her from him. Then there came the headlong plunge into
the swirling sea, followed by an indefinite period of gasping oblivion.