would have been if he had passed the night in sleep.
Yet the next bridge—the last bridge—was passed. He was conscious of it; but in the tumult of his blood, he could only feel vaguely that he was safe and might land. But where? The current was having its way with him: he hardly knew where he was: exhaustion was bringing on the dreamy state that precedes unconsciousness.
But now there were eyes that discerned him—aged eyes, strong for the distance.
Baldassarre, looking up blankly from the search in the runlet that brought him nothing, had seen a white object coming along the broader stream.
Could that be any fortunate chance for him ?
He looked and looked till the object gathered form: then he leaned forward with a start as he sat among the rank green stems, and his eyes seemed to be filled with a new light.
Yet he only watched—motionless. Something was being brought to him.