In the water something black, surrounded with splashes, was floating toward him.
Rather instinctively than consciously, Foma threw himself with his chest on the beams of the raft, and stretched out his hands, his head hanging down over the water.

Several incredibly long seconds passed.

Cold, wet arms clasped his neck and dark eyes flashed before him.

Then he understood that it was Sasha.
The dull horror, which had suddenly seized him, vanished, replaced now by wild, rebellious joy.

Having dragged the woman out of the water, he grasped her by the waist, clasped her to his breast, and, not knowing what to say to her, he stared into her eyes with astonishment.