“All right?” he asked again.
“Yes.”
He took another step forward, the current caught him and lifted him off his feet, and he began to swim easily and slowly. He was not sure of his strength, it was a long time since he had done any serious swimming, and he knew that he must husband himself. Then, too, the current was stronger than it had seemed from the shore, and he found that he could make head against it but slowly, for the box was of an awkward shape and the girl’s body trailing behind it so much dead weight.
“Slow but sure,” he said, reassuringly, resting a moment. “You’re quite all right?”
“Yes. You must not worry about me.”
He glanced back at the shore, where the lights of the camp shone dimly through the mist.
“We’re going to drift right past the camp,” he said; “but they can’t see us, and it will make our landing safer if we come out below the troops. It would be rather embarrassing, wouldn’t it, if we found a patrol waiting for us on the bank? Now for another swim!”
He pushed ahead until he found himself beginning to tire, then stopped and looked around.
“There’s the bridge!” he said, suddenly.
And, sure enough, just ahead, they could see its dim shape spanning the stream. A cold fear gripped Stewart’s heart. Suppose they should be swept against one of the abutments!