On
his right, only a few feet away, was the swollen current of the San
Antonio. The stream looked deep to Ned, and it bore fragments of timber
upon its muddy bosom. It seemed to him that the waters rippled angrily
against the bank. His excited imagination--and full cause there
was--gave a sinister meaning to everything.
A heavy fog began to rise from the river and wet earth. He could not see
far in front of him, but he believed that the town was now only a mile
or two away. Soon a low, heavy sound, a measured stroke, came out of the
fog. It was the tolling of the church bell in San Antonio, and for some
reason its impact upon Ned's ear was like the stroke of death. A strange
chilly sensation ran down his spine.
He rode to the very edge of the stream and began to examine it for a
possible ford. San Antonio was on the other side, and he must cross.
But everywhere the dark, swollen waters threatened, and he continued his
course along the bank.
A thick growth of bushes and a high portion of the bank caused him
presently to turn away from the river until he could make a curve about
the obstacles. The tolling of the bell had now ceased, and the fog was
lifting a little.
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