“O Alice, isn’t this dreadful?” says Sylvia, whose taste for adventure begins to be a little damped. As for Aunt Markham, she thinks that forbearance has ceased to be a virtue, and she cries that she must and will get into the carriage. “I _cannot_ sit here in a pool of water!” she says. “Eric, I shall take my death of cold—I am sure of it.” “We’ll be ready for you in a minute, mother,” says Eric, working like a Trojan. In the midst of all this, a horseman unexpectedly appears, riding around a cliff just ahead of us, where the river makes a bend. He pauses—naturally surprised at the scene before him. It is by no means common to find parties of our description on the French Broad in a pouring rain. _We_ hail him with our usual question: “Can you tell us how far we are from Laurel?” “Four miles,” he answers, staring hard. “Broken a spring?” “Yes. Is Laurel up?” “Pretty high. You are not thinking about crossing it?” “We are thinking exactly that,” says Eric, turning round, “if the stream isn’t too high. Have _you_ crossed it?” “No—it’s beyond crossing, except in a canoe. I’m just from there, though. I live on Laurel, five miles from the mouth. The river has been past fording for five days. It is running eight or ten feet deep now, and will swim a horse.” [Illustration: The Shower.] “By Jove!” says Mr. Lanier. Nobody else utters a word. We are all stunned, and we gaze at the messenger of evil tidings with a mixture of indignation and appeal. “It can’t be!” cries Sylvia, entreatingly. “They say mountain streams run down very fast—oh, don’t you think we _might_ cross it if we went on?” The new-comer—who in face and manner is more decided and intelligent than any other native of the region we have met—glances at her, and then points to the tossing, turbulent current of the French Broad. “You could just as soon drive to that rock yonder,” he says, indicating a black, jagged point two-thirds of the distance across the river. “Laurel is fully that wide, and fully that swift.” We look at each other in dismay. What is to be said, what is to be done? Torrents of rain are pouring on us, lightning is flashing around, and thunder bellowing above. We are in the wildest part of the wild river gorge, with Laurel “deep enough to swim a horse” in front, and Alexander’s eighteen miles behind! CHAPTER VI. “A chieftain, to the Highlands bound, Cries, ‘Boatman, do not tarry! And I’ll give thee a silver pound, To row us o’er the ferry.’” “Eric,” cries Aunt Markham, with strong symptoms of hysterics, “come here this instant and tell me if we are all to be drowned!” Eric is undutiful enough to disregard this appeal. He walks instead up to the man who has warned us, and who, with supreme indifference to the rain, is sitting on his horse watching our proceedings with great interest.