He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. Here they remained till midnight when, calling for their reckoning and their steeds, they left the house. If the creator drew a hero anything like himself, she would accept it as a sign that he did care a little. Her fingers closed upon it instinctively. In military circles, highly exaggerated tales of Major Alderley’s derring-do were bruited from lip to lip and passed on to raw recruits to strengthen morale. “They have all been trying to turn my head.
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