Not far to the south she could see the projecting land, a flat place and bare except for some carved stones lying there in a semblance of order--the bleached ruins, in fact, of a temple raised by one of her ancestors. The wash of ages had brought the river much nearer than it was in the days of that rude conqueror, and one stone, bedded deep in the mould, stood erect at the water’s edge. Its base was hidden, but enough remained above ground to tell what part it had played in architecture--a section of a rounded column. Brianza folk knew it by the name of the Old Sentinel. Always it had been there, they told the stranger. Now the magic of the low sun changed it into a shaft of gold. From childhood Hera had known the ancient landmark, and was the more puzzled to divine how it could serve them now. “Can I help?” she asked, as he turned toward her again. “Yes,” he answered, quickly. “Hold my horse. Can you manage both?” “I will try,” she said, moving closer to him. “We must not lose the horses,” he warned her. “They will be useful in case I--even after we are connected once more with the land.” She took the other bridle, which he passed to her, and grasped it firmly. Then she saw him lift from the saddle-bow the rope--a lariat of the plainsman’s sort, fashioned of horsehair, light of weight, but stronger than if made of hemp. He gathered it in an orderly coil and made sure of his footing. Now she knew what he was going to attempt, and the desperate chance of the feat came home to her. In a flash she comprehended that upon the success of it their lives depended even if the dismembering raft held together so long. If his aim proved false, if the lariat missed the mark, a second throw might not avail; before he could make it they must be swept past the column of stone. Calmly he awaited the right moment, which came when their rickety outfit, in the freak of the current, was moving yet toward the land. He poised a second and raised the coil. Twice he swung it in a circle above his head--the horses were watching him--and with a mighty fling sent it over the water. Steadily it paid out, ring for ring, straight as an arrow’s course, until the noose caught the column fairly, spread around it, and dropped to the ground. “Bravo, Signor Sentinella!” he cried, pulling the line taut. “A good catch!” “Bravo, Signor--” she amended, pausing for his name. “Forza is my name,” he said, hauling for the shore, hand over hand. It was work that had to be done quickly. A few seconds and their craft would swing past the column to which it was moored. To haul it back then would mean a tug against the current. In this he knew that no strength of his could avail even if the lariat did not part. His sole chance was to keep the float moving in a slanting line toward land before it should be carried beyond the Sentinel. The bulk of woodwork and pontoons was of great weight, and the task took all the strength he could muster.