Rainsford remembered the shots. They had come from the right, anddoggedly he swam in that direction, swimming with slow, deliberatestrokes, conserving his strength. For a seemingly endless time he foughtthe sea. He began to count his strokes; he could do possibly a hundredmore and then– Rainsford heard a sound. It came out of the darkness, a high screamingsound, the sound of an animal in an extremity of anguish and terror. He did not recognize the animal that made the sound; he did not try to;with fresh vitality he swam toward the sound. He heard it again; then itwas cut short by another noise, crisp, staccato. “Pistol shot,” muttered Rainsford, swimming on.
Ten minutes of determined effort brought another sound to his ears–themost welcome he had ever heard–the muttering and growling of the seabreaking on a rocky shore. He was almost on the rocks before he sawthem; on a night less calm he would have been shattered against them.With his remaining strength he dragged himself from the swirling waters.Jagged crags appeared to jut up into the opaqueness; he forced himselfupward, hand over hand. Gasping, his hands raw, he reached a flat placeat the top. Dense jungle came down to the very edge of the cliffs. Whatperils that tangle of trees and underbrush might hold for him did notconcern Rainsford just then. All he knew was that he was safe from hisenemy, the sea, and that utter weariness was on him. He flung himselfdown at the jungle edge and tumbled headlong into the deepest sleep ofhis life.