it will be like that river in flood down there."

The road ran high above a rocky gorge, through which the Grey was
rushing in a turbulent torrent of water. It roared as it went, and
leaped up angrily at the rocks on either side, foaming and bubbling,
swirling into small whirlpools, as if in an impotent passion at the
constraint.

Kathleen looked at the flood, and then at Sylvia's sleepy face and
dreamy eyes.

"I wonder if you could love?" she asked.

"I wonder, too. Sometimes I scoff at the very thought of such a thing,
and sometimes I believe that I could be as wild and turbulent as the
river is to-day."

Beyond the gorge the river widens out into a broad estuary before it
enters the sea. It is across this estuary that the lower bridge has been
built. Just below it is the bar, where river and sea were battling in a
wild confusion.

When Kathleen saw that the bridge was half submerged, and that the
current was still strong, though not to be compared in violence with the
maelstrom that poured through the gorge, she reined her horse in.

"We must turn round and ride home the way we came," she said.

"Turn around? Why should we? I intend to cross. I can see Denis Quirk on
the farther bank."

"And he is warning us to turn back," said Kathleen.

"The more reason to go on. Follow me if you dare."

Seeing that Sylvia was determined to cross, Kathleen urged her own horse
alongside of Sylvia's, and seized her friend's rein.

"You shall not go on!" she cried.

"Let go of my reins!" said Sylvia.

Kathleen recognised the note of anger in the voice, and saw that the
customarily sleepy eyes were flashing, and that there was a line of
determination on the usually smooth forehead. But this did not influence
her.

"No. I will not let go," she replied.

Sylvia Jackson raised her whip. Once it fell smartly on Kathleen's
hand, leaving a red wheal; still Kathleen held on. But when the blow was
repeated more viciously than before, with a cry of pain she released the
rein.

"Do you imagine you can stop me, with Denis Quirk on the other side?"
Sylvia asked, and urged her horse on to the flooded bridge. I have
already said that Sylvia was not an expert rider; her horse realised the
fact, and faced the water with a snort of terror. The handrail of the
bridge alone appeared above the muddy stream; even this was submerged
occasionally as a wave rolled up from the turbulent bar, barely one
hundred yards below the bridge.