the centre, Betty? You are making toward the
other bank."

"Yes," she replied, with what breath she could spare. "We'll find a stand
of boats tied to poles almost opposite Temple Bar stairs. There we may
take a pair of oars. I'm afraid I can't hold out at this much longer."

We soon found the boat stand, and, with little ceremony, appropriated a
pair of oars, leaving a crown on the thwart of the rifled boat.

Hamilton and I quickly adjusted the stolen sweeps in the oar-locks, Betty
sat down on the stern thwart, guided the boat to the swift water of the
centre, and immediately we sped toward London Bridge at a fine rate.
Presently, as we had expected, we heard the rapid, regular stroke of the
sweeps in the king's barge, and in a few minutes it was so close behind
us that we could see the men at the sweeps. When they saw us, they fired
their pistols at us, but we did not hear the bullets splash in the water,
so we knew they did not have our range.

My greatest fear of the bullets was for Bettina's sake, she being in the
rear and more exposed to the enemy's fire than we who were at the sweeps,
but I could not leave my oar to take her place, nor could I have steered
the boat had I done so, being unfamiliar with the river. All I could do
was to hasten our stroke, which George and I did to our utmost, and soon
the welcome beacon over the centre arch of London Bridge came into view,
dimly at first, but brightening with every stroke of our sweeps. As we
approached the Bridge, De Grammont nervously called our attention to the
danger ahead of us.

"Yes, we'll take the middle arch, and I shall enjoy seeing the king's
barge follow us," I answered, with what breath I could spare.

"Take the middle arch, and the tide running as a river in flood?" cried
De Grammont, speaking French, being too excited to sort out English
words. "Never! Never! Let me out!"

"Do not fear, count," I answered. "Our pilot--"

"Our pilot! Ah, sacrament! We are lost! Our pilot is a mere girl!"

"But a wonder, count, a wonder. There is no waterman on the river in
whose hands we should be safer," I replied, expressing my confidence in
stronger terms than it really deserved. To shoot London Bridge when the
tide was running out, as it then was, would give pause to the hardiest
waterman. A misstroke of the steering oar, the slightest faltering in the
hands that held it, the mere touch of the boat's nose against the jagged
rocks and logs of the pier, and a