Now, as she found herself nearing it, preparing for a long skimming glide beneath it, she felt a chill shoot up her spine. Involuntarily she glanced up at the bridge railing. Then she gripped Florence’s arm tightly.
“Who can that be on the bridge at this hour of the night?” she whispered.
“Probably someone who has climbed up there to take off his skates,” said Florence with her characteristic coolness.
“But look! He’s waving his arms. He’s signaling. Do you suppose he means it for us?”
“No,” said Florence. “He’s looking north, toward the edge of the island. Come on; pay no attention to him. Under we go.”
With a great, broad swinging stroke she fairly threw her lighter partner across the shadow that the bridge made and out into the moonlight on the other side.
Marian was breathing quite easily again. They had made half the length of the island on the return lap, when she again gripped Florence’s arm.
“A sled!” she whispered.
“What of it?” Florence’s tone was impatient. “You are seeing things to-night.”
The sled, drawn by two men without skates, was passing diagonally across the lagoon. It was seven or eight feet long and stood a full three feet above the ice. The runners, of solid boards, were exceedingly broad.