The young man was clad in sporting garb, carried a gun, which he shielded from the dampness, and at his feet crouched a dog, while the game-bag hanging on a limb near-by proved the sportsman's skill.
It was approaching sunset time, and the storm had been raging for a couple of hours, the rain-fall being so heavy as to deluge the country, and make foaming torrents of mere rivulets.
"It is clearing now, and I will venture, for I would not like to be caught in the wood by darkness, as I would have to remain all night," and the sportsman gazed up anxiously at the clouds, breaking away in the westward.
He was a man of twenty-six perhaps, and his erect form, elegant manners and handsome face had won many a girl's heart.
A Philadelphian, and the ideal of society, he had run away from dissipation and comrades for a few days shooting in Maryland, and his first day of sport had been checked by the storm.
As the rain ceased falling he threw his game bag over his shoulder and started out upon his return to the little Cross-Roads Inn where he was stopping.
He had to pick his way carefully, and often, as it was, he went into water nearly up to the top of his boots.
At last he came to a rustic bridge, across a brook; but the brook was now surging beyond its banks, and driving furiously along.
"Ho, don't cross there!" cried a voice from the other side.
But the hunter heeded not the warning and sprang upon the bridge.