“I don’t understand what you mean, Adrian. She’s in danger. Linda’s in danger. Of course I shall go. I’m not afraid of Brand.”
She glanced across the wide expanse of fens. On the southern side of the road, as she looked back, the park trees of Oakguard stood out against the sky and nearer, on the northern side, the gables of Dyke House itself rose above the bank of the river.
“Oh, my dear, my dear,” she cried distractedly, “I must get back to them! I must! I must! Look—there’s our house! You can see its roof! There’s some way—surely—without going right back to the bridge? There must be some way.”
She dragged him to the side of the road. A deep black ditch, bordered by reeds, intersected the meadow and beyond this was the Loon. A small wooden enclosure, isolated and forlorn, lay just inside the field and from within its barrier an enormous drab-coloured sow surveyed them disconsolately, uttering a lamentable squeal and resting its front feet upon the lower bar of its prison, while its great, many-nippled belly swung under it, plain to their view. Their presence as they stood in a low gap of the hedge tantalized the sow and it uttered more and more discordant sounds. It was like an angry impersonation of fecundity, mocking Nance’s agitation.
“Nothing short of wading up to your waist,” said Sorio, surveying the scene, “would get you across that ditch, and nothing short of swimming would get you over the river.”
Angry tears came into Nance’s eyes. “I would do it,” she gasped, “I would do it if I were a man.”
Sorio made a humorous grimace and nodded in the direction of the sow.
“What’s your opinion about it—eh, my beauty?”
At that moment there came the sound of a trotting horse.
“Here’s something,” he added, “that may help you if you’re bent on going.”