The wind now blew less. The cold rain fell and cut my face and hand, but I still held on. If I fell on the shore below while the tide was still out, it would kill me, surely. If I held on until the tide came in, the sea would give me a painless ending. Because of this sad hope, I held on more strongly. I could not live, but drowning, I had heard, was an easier death than the falling. But why die at all if I could hold on till the sea washed the cliff's foot? I could swim well. I might escape. Never, never; the cruel ropes that tied my wrists would prevent me from fighting with the waves. My strength was disappearing fast. I was sick and tired. Ha! It is best to die like a man, in a fight for life. I remembered that by a great effort I might climb to the top of the cliff and save myself. It is true that effort would use up my remaining strength. However, I tired.