About three o'clock
Sunday morning, he heard a loud roaring noise and supposed it to be some
freight train passing over the bridge at Casale, a village below, which
he considered was then near. About the same time a thick, white fog
peculiar to the Po, settled over the river. Through this he picked his
way cautiously and as the current swept in around the bend of the river,
the noise he heard before seemed to be no great distance away. The
speed of the current seemed to increase and in a few minutes afterwards,
he was shot over a dam and hurled in the tumbling water below.
Before he could extricate himself, the little boat had been upset and
was about sinking when he grabbed her. The current soon drove him far
below the dam, where he landed on a bar and emptied his tender of water.
He knew her contents were ruined; but it was too dark to examine, so
he kept on his voyage until sunrise, when he landed and found that all
his provisions were converted into a kind of pudding, dotted with
cigars instead of fruit. The small flask of Cognac and a bottle of oil
were the only things uninjured. A pull at the Cognac flask served
him for breakfast and he paddled away on his voyage with vigorous
stroke. The sun rose that morning in a deep red color and as the rays
illumined the snow clad Alps, that looked so near him, the valley of the
Po and the remnants of the fog were bathed in a soft red light, so
that even the very water seemed turned to blood.
Pages:
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296