His hope was that the gipsies, being horsemen, and passing all their lives on their horses, might not know how to swim.

His conjecture was right; they stopped on the brink, and yelled their loudest.

When he had passed the middle of the slow stream their rage rose to a shriek, startling a heron far down the water.
Felix reached the opposite shore in safety, but the bow-string was now wet and useless.

He struck off at once straight across the grass-lands, past the oaks he had admired, past the green knoll where in imagination he had built his castle and brought Aurora, through the brook, which he found was larger than it appeared at a distance, and required two or three strokes to cross.

A few more paces and the forest sheltered him.
Under the trees he rested, and considered what course to pursue.