that very morning, now assumed a possible existence. One thing, at
least, was certain; he would exact an explanation, and if none should be
furnished, he would make public the evidence in his hands.

The black, dreary night seemed interminable. He could only guess, here
and there, at a landmark, and was forced to rely more upon Roger's
instinct of the road than upon the guidance of his senses. Towards
midnight, as he judged, by the solitary crow of a cock, the rain almost
entirely ceased. The wind began to blow, sharp and keen, and the hard
vault of the sky to lift a little. He fancied that the hills on his
right had fallen away, and that the horizon was suddenly depressed
towards the north. Roger's feet began to splash in constantly deepening
water, and presently a roar, distinct from that of the wind, filled the
air.

It was the Brandywine. The stream had overflowed its broad
meadow-bottoms, and was running high and fierce beyond its main channel.
The turbid waters made a dim, dusky gleam around him; soon the fences
disappeared, and the flood reached to his horse's belly. But he knew
that the ford could be distinguished by the break in the fringe of
timber; moreover, that the creek-bank was a little higher than the
meadows behind it, and so far, at least, he might venture. The ford was
not more than twenty yards across, and he could trust Roger to swim that
distance.

The faithful animal pressed bravely on, but Gilbert soon noticed that he
seemed at fault. The swift water had forced him out of the road, and he
stopped, from time to time, as if anxious and uneasy. The timber could
now be discerned, only a short distance in advance, and in a few minutes
they would gain the bank.