Conseltine crept down to the water’s edge, and leaning forward, tried the depth with a heavy blackthorn stick which he carried. ‘We can do it,’ he said. ‘Mind you stand firm against the current, or you’re a dead man.’ Feagus groaned and prayed. All his natural courage had deserted him, and he looked an abject picture of human wretchedness. ‘Stop a minute,’ he cried; ‘I’m out o’ breath!’ ‘Stop if you please,’ returned Conseltine contemptuously. ‘I’m going across!’ Then steadying himself for the struggle, and using his stick as a partial support, he stepped into the stream, and in a moment was fighting with the current. With slow, long strides he moved from the bank, his feet set upon the slippery bottom. For several yards the water reached no higher than his knees, but gradually deepened; it at last surged wildly to his waist; but he was a tall man of unusual strength, and nature favoured him. For a few moments, as he stood in mid-stream, it seemed as if he must be swept away, but, facing the current and leaning forward, he held his own--then, putting out all his strength, he leaped rather than walked until he gained the shallower water on the farther side. He had passed safely, and stood soaked and dripping, but secure, upon the further bank. Feagus, who had watched his progress with wondering eyes, but with an increasing sense of hope, still stood crouching by the riverside. ‘Come,’ cried Conseltine, waving his stick and laughing; ‘it’s easier than I thought!’ ‘Your staff! Throw me your staff!’ shrieked Feagus, and glancing round he saw the bog descending like a snake towards Blake’s Hall. Then an extraordinary phenomenon took place. The bog, meeting the river just where the bridge had fallen, blocked it like an enormous dam and then crawled like a monster over it. The result was instantaneous. The river, arrested in its course, began to swell up, deepen, and push backward on itself. There was not a moment to be lost if it was to be crossed again. ‘Throw me your staff, for the love of God!’ cried Feagus. Conseltine hesitated for a moment, then cast the stick across the flood with all his might; it fell close to Feagus, who gripped it eagerly, and then, with a cry, plunged forward into the water. His progress was at first comparatively easy, but as the water deepened, it became more and more difficult to keep his foothold. With face set hard and eyes protruding, he struggled on. After watching him for a moment, Conseltine ran from the bank, followed the side of the stream, and stood on the point of land of which he had spoken, some forty yards below. Standing there, he waited for results.