He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. Fate! You are so frank so splendid! “I’m taking this calmly now,” he said, almost as if he apologized, “because I’m a little stunned. ‘But my poor Jacques is wounded and—’ ‘All taken care of,’ interrupted Hilary. On the contrary, it was impossible to look at him without perceiving that his resolution was unshaken. " The stranger was for a moment lost in reflection. “It’s the spring,” he said.
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