As they neared the river, Ingolby became deeply agitated. He moved with
his hands outstretched. Had it not been for his dog he would probably
have walked into the Sagalac; for though he seemed to have an instinct
that was extra-natural, he swayed and staggered in the delirium driving
him on. There was one dreadful moment when, having swerved from the road
leading on to the bridge, he was within a foot of the river-bank. One
step farther, and he would have plunged down thirty feet into the stream,
to be swept to the Rapids below.
But for the first time the terrier made a sound. He gave a whining bark
almost human in its meaning, and threw himself at the legs of his master,
pushing him backwards and over towards the road leading upon the bridge,
as a collie guides sheep. Presently Ingolby felt the floor of the bridge
under his feet; and now he hastened on, with outstretched arms and head
bent forward, listening intently, the dog trotting beside, with what
knowledge working in him Heaven alone knew.
The roar of the Rapids below was a sonorous accompaniment to Ingolby's
wild thoughts. One thing only he felt, one thing only heard--the men in
Barbazon's Tavern saying that the bridge should be blown up on the
Saturday night; and this was Saturday night--the night of the day
following that of the Orange funeral.
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