But Sylvia stands her ground and looks undauntedly at the broad river, with its swift, turbulent current. “I have no desire to be drowned,” she says; “and if you think there is real danger, I will go back. But if you only hesitate on my account—and because you fancy, perhaps, that I shall be frightened by a little deep fording—I insist upon going forward.” “I can’t imagine that there is any real danger, but still—” “Then we will go. Forward!” She waves her hand with an imperious air that her companion knows well. The idea of turning back is as disagreeable to him as to herself. He springs on Cecil. “Follow me, then,” he says, and rides into the river. Sylvia does not hesitate a moment. She gathers up her habit and follows. Bonnibelle, however—remembering her late experience at Laurel—does not like the look of things. She pauses, snorts, would fain draw back, but a sharp cut of the whip urges her forward. Down she plunges into a rocky hole, and the turbid water rises up over Sylvia’s boot. She confesses afterward that her courage sinks a little. If this is “deep fording” at the shore, what will it be in mid-stream? She says nothing, but lifts the mare into shallower water, and follows Charley closely as he slowly splashes ahead. A few yards from the shore they begin to feel the force of the current—a force which increases with every step and makes the horses totter as they breast it. For the first time in her life Sylvia grows a little giddy as she looks down at the swift, eddying river. A fear of falling from her seat comes over her, and she clutches the saddle, but does not utter a word. On they go, the horses stumbling over the rocky bottom, the current growing momentarily stronger, the water rising momentarily higher. It is permanently over and above Sylvia’s boot now, and sweeps the skirts which she vainly attempts to lift out of it. Brave as she is, she begins to feel dismayed, and wonders how this will end, when suddenly Charley stops. She knows at once that something is wrong by the expression of his face as he looks round. “We must go back,” he says. “I dare not take you farther. I fear I have mistaken the ford, and another foot of water will swim the horses.” “Go back!” repeats Sylvia. She looks around. They are in the middle of the stream, which sweeps tumultuously down upon their swaying horses. She never forgets the sight—which is one of terror as well as of majesty. The distance to either bank seems as great as the width of the entire river when regarded from one of those banks, while the view up and down is wildly beautiful. Just now she does not think of the beauty, however. She realizes fully the danger of their position, but she lifts her hand and points ahead. “We are as near that shore as the other,” she says. “Let us go on.” [Illustration: “‘Follow me, then,’ he says, and rides into the river.”] The quietness of her tone reassures Charley. He has evidently no burst of terrified hysterics to dread.