His diligent and careful thrashing, however, was of no avail.
He could not stir anything; and as in time the deepening water drove him
ashore, he willingly surrendered his rod to his fair companion, who
could now fish from the bank.
Then he sat down to watch--and to dream. He could see that she was
getting out more and more line, and throwing beautifully; but he had
persuaded himself (or thought he had persuaded himself) into the belief
that the singular and constant charm of this river had no association
with her, or with the quiet hours these two had passed there together.
It was the stream talking to him that had fascinated him as he sat idly
and listened. He had grown familiar with every cadence of that
mysterious voice--now a whispering and laughing as the water chased over
the sunny shallows--then a harsher note where the current, fretting and
chafing, as it were, was broken by multitudes of stones--again a low
murmur as the black river swept, dark and sullen, through a contracted
channel--finally a fiercer tumult as this once-placid Aivron, increasing
in pace and volume every moment, flung itself, lion-like, over the
masses of rocks--its tawny mane upheaved to the daylight--and then fell,
crashing and plunging, into a mighty chasm, the birchwoods around
reverberating with its angry roar.
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