‘Then strip off your coat, and follow me!’ said Conseltine. ‘I’m going across. If the water takes me off my feet, I shall swim to the point below yonder—the current swirls that way, and it’s shallow close to the bank. You’d better come—it’s your only chance.’
Suiting the action to the word, Conseltine took off his outer garments, and stood in trousers and shirtsleeves; then, stooping down, he unlaced his mud-clogged boots, and threw them off. Trembling with fear, Feagus followed his example.
Conseltine crept down to the water’s edge, and leaning forward, tried the depth with a heavy blackthorn stick which he carried.
‘We can do it,’ he said. ‘Mind you stand firm against the current, or you’re a dead man.’
Feagus groaned and prayed. All his natural courage had deserted him, and he looked an abject picture of human wretchedness.
‘Stop a minute,’ he cried; ‘I’m out o’ breath!’
‘Stop if you please,’ returned Conseltine contemptuously. ‘I’m going across!’
Then steadying himself for the struggle, and using his stick as a partial support, he stepped into the stream, and in a moment was fighting with the current. With slow, long strides he moved from the bank, his feet set upon the slippery bottom. For several yards the water reached no higher than his knees, but gradually deepened; it at last surged wildly to his waist; but he was a tall man of unusual strength, and nature favoured him. For a few moments, as he stood in mid-stream, it seemed as if he must be swept away, but, facing the current and leaning forward, he held his own—then, putting out all his strength, he leaped rather than walked until he gained the shallower water on the farther side. He had passed safely, and stood soaked and dripping, but secure, upon the further bank.
Feagus, who had watched his progress with wondering eyes, but with an increasing sense of hope, still stood crouching by the riverside.
‘Come,’ cried Conseltine, waving his stick and laughing; ‘it’s easier than I thought!’