"I must," answered Olof in a voice cold and hard as steel, with a ring of confidence that impressed those who heard.
He goes off to the raft, picks out a log and tries its buoyancy with care. A long pine stem, with the bark off, and floating deep in the water.
"Ah—he's choosing a horse of another sort!"
"Tis another sort of rider, too, by his looks."
Olof was nearing the bridge now—calmly, without a word, watching the course of the river all the time. Reaching the bridge, he raised his eyes for a moment, and met the glance of a girl looking down. A faint smile, and the slightest inclination of the head, no more.
"Good luck to you!" cried several of the onlookers; a certain sympathy was evident among the crowd.
Now he glides under the bridge, on towards the perilous stage of the journey—all watch with eager eyes.
The strange craft cleaves the waves, sending up spray on either hand—but the heavy log, floating deep, hardly moves; the steersman keeps his footing steadily as on firm ground.
"That's the way! Ah, he knows the sort of craft to choose for the work!"
The log hurries on, the lithe figure bends a little, balancing with the pole.