On one of the iron piles the boat had become impaled.
Maurice was tumbled into the bow of the boat, which began rapidly to fill.

First he swore, then he laughed, for he was possessed of infinite good humor.

The only thing left for him to do was to swim for the gate.
With a rueful glance at his thin clothes, he dropped himself over the side of the wreck and struck out toward the gate.

The water, having its source from the snowclad mountains, was icy.

He was glad enough to grasp the lower bars of the gate and draw himself up.