“Courage,” mumbled Gerard. “Whatever a duck knows, a Dutchman knows; art safe as in bed.”
The next moment, to their surprise, they found themselves in shallow water, and so waded ashore. Once on terra firma, they looked at one another from head to foot as if eyes could devour, then by one impulse flung each an arm round the other's neck, and panted there with hearts too full to speak. And at this sacred moment life was sweet as heaven to both; sweetest perhaps to the poor exiled lover, who had just saved his friend. Oh, joy to whose height what poet has yet soared, or ever tried to soar? To save a human life; and that life a loved one. Such moments are worth living for, ay, three score years and ten. And then, calmer, they took hands, and so walked along the bank hand in hand like a pair of sweethearts, scarce knowing or caring whither they went.
The boat people were all safe on the late concave, now convex craft, Herr Turnip-face, the “Inverter of things,” being in the middle. All this fracas seemed not to have essentially deranged his habits. At least he was greeting when he shot our friends into the Rhine, and greeting when they got out again.
“Shall we wait till they right the boat?”
“No, Denys, our fare is paid; we owe them nought. Let us on, and briskly.”
Denys assented, observing that they could walk all the way to Cologne on this bank.
“I fare not to Cologne,” was the calm reply.
“Why, whither then?”
“To Burgundy.”
“To Burgundy? Ah, no! that is too good to be sooth.”