"wild Irishman"[1] (that very objectionable thorny scrub) caught at us with leafless branches as we passed. Brown water lay between, whose peaty depth it was impossible to guess. And as to the Main South Road, it meandered in and out of bog-holes, marked very rarely by a bit of rag tied to a flax blade—flax so tall that even on horseback it grew high over our heads. Once, a few stones had been thrown down; then a brown water stretched right across the only opening. In went the Scorpion, very cautiously. It swallowed her, and I watched her swim across, wondering if Tom would do the same. He chose his own crossing and walked through on a firm bottom. This peril past, through more flax and scrub we came to a strange place. A rude foot-bridge was thrown across another sheet of coffee-coloured water, and beyond that there was a tangle of dead trees lying partly submerged, heaped in confusion. Could horses get through that? Surely we had missed the track? But no, there was the evidence of that tree-trunk bridging the water—there was no other path. The Scorpion, in her matter-of-fact-way, crashed through, breast-deep in the coffee-coloured water, and Tom followed, and than at the critical point took a panic. I could feel him poised with all four feet gathered on a log. He utterly refused to climb trees, whatever else he might do for me. But we could not stay there—with a slide and a flop he splashed in among the submerged brandies, and we got across.{smallrefs}}
- ↑ Discaria toumatou
