Once, as they floundered through a knee-high mass, Fairchild's arm went quickly about her waist and he lifted her against him as he literally carried her through.

When they reached the other side, the arm still held its place,--and she did not resist.

Fairchild wanted to whistle, or sing, or shout.

But breath was too valuable--and besides, what little remained had momentarily been taken from him.

A small hand had found his, where it encircled her.