He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. ‘One of your countrymen, perhaps?’ The girl clammed up, the moon of her white face staring up at him in the darkness. If he ran less risk of being blown over, he stood a much greater chance of being washed off, or stifled. Armed, however, with the implement he had so fortunately obtained, he did not despair of success. “The real reason why I am out of place here,” she said, “is because I like men. Hope you ate light before you got here. The little pucker in her brows became more perceptible. A very small settlement, mostly natives. Why? What is she to you?” “I was there by accident,” Ennison answered.
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