The rain was still falling in sheets and the water had risen to our shoe-tops. In the growing light I discovered a projecting ledge near the centre of our shelter and helped Miss Harding to obtain a footing.
"If the water keeps on rising," she said, "we must get out of here. I am sure the rain will not kill us."
"That's true," I admitted, "but I hope the rain will cease before the flood reaches your ledge. It's coming down good and hard now."
It was pouring torrents. Though the crippled stream drained only a small territory the current had already reached my knees. I waded to the east opening and took one glance at the sky. The outlook was not encouraging, but we could stand another eighteen-inch rise without serious discomfort or danger. I realised that it would not do to be swept against the tree which partially clogged the further opening.
Half an hour passed and the rain still fell and the water rose inch by inch. We laughed and joked and were not in the least alarmed. Then the water lapped over the ledge on which she stood. She declared that her feet were wet as they possibly could get.
"I can stand it a few more minutes if you can," she said. "The rain is ceasing. You poor Jacques Henri! It's all you can do to keep your feet!"
I stoutly denied it.
"I'm having a jolly time!" I declared. "I see a light in the west. The rain will cease in a few minutes."
Even as I spoke the water rose several inches in one wave. I surmised what had happened. A dam had formed below us and the water was backing up. In less than a minute it had risen six inches, and was at her shoe-tops.
"We are drowned out!" I said. "Let's get out before we have to swim for it. Now be steady and remember your training as an equestrienne. Grab me by the neck and hang on and we'll be out of here in a minute."