The water was level with the bridge which conducted into his corn-field, and that was above the surface of the ground, for it rested on a small circumvallation raised to protect the field from an overflow. For a moment he gazed at his wheat; then he burst away through the sallows and willow-herbs which grew densely together behind his cottage, drenching himself to the skin, and for ever marring the crimson velvet waistcoat; and struggled through the rising overflow and dripping bushes to the south point of his isle, where usually extended a gravelly spit. That was now submerged; he plunged forward, parting the boughs, and reached a break in the coppice, whence he could look up the valley. At that moment the sun shot from the watery rack overhead, and the bottom of the vale answered with a glare. Its green meadows and yellow corn-fields were covered with a sheet of glistening water, its surface streaked with ripples, pouring relentlessly onwards, and lifting the water-line higher as each broke. Clinging to a poplar, from which the drops shivered about him, up to his middle in water, stood Matthias André, stupefied with despair. Then slowly he turned, and worked his way back. The few minutes of his absence had wrought a change. His garden was covered, and the flood had dissolved or overleaped the dyke of the corn-field, and was flowing around his shocks of wheat. Nothing could possibly be done for the preservation of his harvest. He stationed himself on the bench at his door, and watched the water rise, and upset his sheaves, and float them off. Some went down the river, some congregated in an eddy, and spun about; others accumulating behind them, wedged them together, and formed a raft of straw. ‘Go!’ shouted he to his corn-sheaves; ‘sodden and spoiled, I care not if ye remain. Go! now I must starve outright, and Gabrielle--she must starve too.’ Gabrielle! Instantly it occurred to him that she was at the church, and would need protection and assistance in returning. He went inside and put on his coat, took a strong pole in his hand, and bent his steps towards the foot-bridge. It was not washed away, but it was under water. He felt for it with the pole, found it, and crossed cautiously. Then he took the road to La Couture. Many people met him. Recovered from their alarm, their tongues were loosened, and they were detailing their impressions of the storm to one another. André accosted a neighbour, and asked him if he had seen Gabrielle. He had not; but supposed she was behind;--many, he said, were still in the churchyard, waiting for the flood to subside. Some old women, who lived in a cottage only a hundred paces beyond the stile across which André strode into the road from his islet, now came towards him. ‘Neighbour Elizabeth, have you seen my child?’ ‘No, Gaffer André.’ A little farther on he met a girl-friend of Gabrielle’s, in white, with her wreath somewhat faded, and her candle extinguished. ‘Josephine! where is my little one?’