He approached, raising the oars. She walked to the water’s edge.
“Hold the reins fast. The horse will follow us.”
She stepped into the boat and stood in the stern. Blanchet followed, in the wake.
Renaud knew the current at that spot. He rowed diagonally across and reached the other shore more than a hundred yards farther down.
He tied the boat to the trunk of a willow and tightened the girths, and they were off again.
It was necessary to ascend the stream a long distance to find a place to ford the canal that runs from Arles to Port-le-Bouc. When they had crossed the canal, he said:
“We are almost there.”
They had ridden nearly five hours.
His desires were approaching fruition. He was seized with the impatience that comes with the last half-hour. He had a vision of what was to come.
“It is in the gargate,” he said. And he explained: “The gargate is like thickened water. It is about the same as mud. The cabin we are going to is in the midst of one of these patches of mud. Ah! we shall be well protected there, gitana, I promise you. A man once lived there for a long while; a conscript who wanted to evade the draft. And later, an escaped convict, a native of the neighborhood, who knew about the place. No one could dislodge him there. Others know the spot; but never fear, I have a way to fool them. Trust me, gitana, we shall be well guarded there, by death hidden in the water around us!”