carried down in flood-time, and here and there an oasis where some scrub and grass made shift to grow. In front of us was the pale blue hurrying tide, milky from the melted snows, swirling silently past, “too full for sound or foam.”
“Better give it up, and cross in the morning,” says Transome, and I answer: “I don’t want to sleep in that hut, and I’m sure it’s not half so dangerous as a West Coast river”—and, with a little more urging, Transome agreed to try the depth by riding one of the horses over. He found the track on the far side, which assured us we were at the crossing-place, for the ford was so wide it was impossible to see any track from where I was. The water was up to the horse’s chest, and measuring this against the floor of the Berline, we foresaw our precious stores would be wet, and we decided to make the passage in two journeys, carrying them over on the seat. So the bulkiest sack and one of the saddles were removed, and Transome drove the horses into the flood, I watching from the shore.
They had not gone far into deep water when I saw something was wrong: the Scorpion was standing away from the pole, and trying to turn round. What happened next was so rapid I could scarcely follow it; for a moment the Berline whirled one wheel wildly in the air, and threatened to over-turn, but swung round instead, and then everything was in confusion! Three traces were floating loose, washed from their fastenings by the current. The Scorpion somehow had come to the
