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. The cork came out with a loud pop, and Anna could not help wondering how it must sound to the patient little crowd outside. The blast once more swept over the agitated river: whirled off the sheets of foam, scattered them far and wide in rain-drops, and left the raging torrent blacker than before. It is extraordinary. “It was fine and brave of you.
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