But we had Bettina with us; they had not. Besides ours,
there was not another one in the world.
On came the flambeau over the middle arch. It seemed to be coming toward
us rather than we going toward it. Nearer lowered the black dim outline
of the houses on the Bridge, with here and there the flicker of a candle
in a window, magnified to starlike brightness by distance.
Clearer and clearer came the dash and the splash, the roar and the
turmoil of the waters pouring through the terrible death's door, the
middle arch. Yet over the middle arch was the only flambeau on London
Bridge, placed there because it was the broadest of all the spans, and
we dared not attempt to pass under the Bridge in the dark.
But worse than the middle arch ahead of us was the king's barge following
close behind us. It, too, was in the current, though its twelve sweeps
could easily have taken it ashore. I suppose that pride and eagerness to
overtake us prompted its captain to follow in our wake. At any rate, he
continued and was narrowing the distance between us with each stroke of
the sweeps. When I asked Bettina if she thought they would attempt the
arch, she replied:--
"I hope not," then laughing softly, "--for their own sakes. The royal
barges are not built to shoot the bridge."
As we approached the bridge, Betty turned her eyes backward toward it
every few seconds, taking her bearings and bringing the boat's nose now
a little to the right, now to the left, and again holding it straight
ahead.
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