“We shall have the more to laugh over when we meet again.”
“We shall not meet again, Burgwan,” she said, so seriously and deliberately that I thought I could detect a touch of sadness. Perhaps I only hoped it, and the hope cheated me. I answered lightly,
“One never knows. The world’s a small place now. You might come to America some day.”
“No, no. That is impossible,” she interjected quickly.
“Then I might go to Belgrade.”
“No, no,” she exclaimed again in the same quick tone. “That too must be impossible.”
“Impossible is a word we are going to wipe out of the American dictionary,” I replied, with a smile. “We shall see; but as we are at the top of the hill we’ll hurry on to Samac—the first stage, whether for America or Belgrade.”
She turned as if to say something, her face very grave and earnest, but after a moment’s hesitation shook up her reins and we cantered on.
But a good deal was to happen before we reached Samac; the first stage, as I had so glibly named it. We had some few miles of easy going when the path became very difficult and branched suddenly in three directions. I picked out that which, judging by the compass, promised to lead us straight to Samac. But instead of that, when we had followed it for an hour or more we found it cut by a broad, swift-flowing river.
The path led right down to the water’s edge and rose from it on the other side; but the river was in flood from the recent heavy rains, and the ford was impassable. Karasch and I both tried to cross, on horseback first and then on foot, but failed; and then we rode along the bank searching for a fordable spot.