“Where are you going, Simon?” asked Maria Vasilievna. “Take the right-hand road across the bridge!”
“What’s that? We can cross here. It isn’t very deep.”
“Don’t let the horse drown!”
“What’s that?”
“There is Khanoff crossing the bridge!” cried Maria Vasilievna, catching sight of a carriage and four in the distance at their right. “Isn’t that he?”
“That’s him all right. He must have found Bakvist away. My goodness, what a donkey to drive all the way round when this road is two miles shorter!”
They plunged into the river. In summer time it was a tiny stream, in late spring it dwindled rapidly to a fordable river after the freshets, and by August it was generally dry, but during flood time it was a torrent of swift, cold, turbid water some fifty feet wide. Fresh wheel tracks were visible now on the bank leading down to the water’s edge; some one, then, must have crossed here.
“Get up!” cried Simon, madly jerking the reins and flapping his arms like a pair of wings. “Get up!”
The horse waded into the stream up to his belly, stopped, and then plunged on again, throwing his whole weight into the collar. Maria Vasilievna felt a sharp wave of cold water lap her feet.
“Go on!” she cried, rising in her seat. “Go on!”