They ran upon the bridge, but not
so fast as to reach the place where, in the nick of time, Ingolby got
possession of the rolling canoe; where Fleda Druse lay waiting like a
princess to be waked by the kiss of destiny.
Only five hundred yards below the bridge was the second cataract, and she
would never have waked if she had been carried into it.
To Ingolby she was as beautiful as a human being could be as she lay with
white face upturned, the paddle still in her hand.
"Drowning isn't good enough for her," he said, as he fastened her canoe
to his skiff.
"It's been a full day's work," he added; and even in this human crisis he
thought of the fish he had caught, of "the big trouble," he had been
thinking out as Osterhaut had said, as well as of the girl that he was
saving.
"I always have luck when I go fishing," he added presently. "I can take
her back to Lebanon," he continued with a quickening look. "She'll be all
right in a jiffy. I've got room for her in my buggy--and room for her in
any place that belongs to me," he hastened to reflect with a curious,
bashful smile.
"It's like a thing in a book," he murmured, as he neared the waiting
people on the banks of Carillon, and the ringing of the vesper bells came
out to him on the evening air.
Pages:
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36