*

There is a low murmur of voices on the bridge, an anxious whispering.
Olof picks up his pole. Close behind him a young girl plucks at the
sleeve of an elderly man, and seems to be urging him, entreating....

Moisio turns to Olof. "Once more I ask of you--let it be enough. You
have seen how your companion fared. Do not try it again."

"I must," answered Olof in a voice cold and hard as steel, with a ring
of confidence that impressed those who heard.

He goes off to the raft, picks out a log and tries its buoyancy with
care. A long pine stem, with the bark off, and floating deep in the
water.

"Ah--he's choosing a horse of another sort!"

"Tis another sort of rider, too, by his looks."

Olof was nearing the bridge now--calmly, without a word, watching the
course of the river all the time. Reaching the bridge, he raised his
eyes for a moment, and met the glance of a girl looking down. A faint
smile, and the slightest inclination of the head, no more.

"Good luck to you!" cried several of the onlookers; a certain sympathy
was evident among the crowd.

Now he glides under the bridge, on towards the perilous stage of the
journey--all watch with eager eyes.

The strange craft cleaves the waves, sending up spray on either
hand--but the heavy log, floating deep, hardly moves; the steersman
keeps his footing steadily as on firm ground.

"That's the way! Ah, he knows the sort of craft to choose for the
work!"

The log hurries on, the lithe figure bends a little, balancing with
the pole.

"Turn off--turn off! He's making straight for the rock!"

He stands poised, with muscles tense, his pole in readiness, his eyes
fixed on the whirl about the sunken rock, his knees slightly bent.

A shock--and he springs deftly in air as the heavy log is thrust
backward under him--taking his footing again as firmly as before.

"Bravo, bravo! Finely done!"

On again. A few quick, powerful strokes with the pole--and the rock
that had been his rival's undoing is safely passed.

"He'll do it! He's the man!" The onlookers were all excitement now.

The speed increases, the lithe figure swaying to either side. A thrust
from the left--he springs light-footed to meet it.

Once more his body is bent, his pole held firmly, knees crouching
deep--those on the bridge crane their necks to watch.

The next shock comes with a crash that is plainly heard by those
upstream; again he springs as the log thrusts back, and comes down