The roar of the river rose weird and mournful and incessant, with few breaks,
and these were marked by strange ripping and splashing sounds made as the
bulges of water broke on the surface. Twenty feet out the boat floated,
turning a little as it drifted. It seemed loath to leave. It held on the shore
eddy. Hungrily, spitefully the little, heavy waves lapped it. Bostil watched
it with dilating eyes. There! the current caught one end and the water rose in
a hollow splash over the corner. An invisible hand, like a mighty giant's,
seemed to swing the boat out. It had been dark; now it was opaque, now
shadowy, now dim. How swift this cursed river! Was there any way in which
Bostil could recover his boat? The river answered him with hollow, deep
mockery. Despair seized upon him. And the vague shape of the boat, spectral
and instinct with meaning, passed from Bostil's strained gaze.
"So help me God, I've done it!" he groaned, hoarsely. And he staggered back
and sat down. Mind and heart and soul were suddenly and exquisitely acute to
the shame of his act.
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