THE RAINS. 565 



judged it was not so deep as its turbid appearance 

 led one to believe. Deep or shallow, it had to be 

 crossed. The Cossack said he knew the ford, and 

 offered to lead the way ; and, after all, its wild 

 foam ings were little worse than the hailstorm 

 that raged around. So, when he plunged in, 

 leading the packhorse behind him, I followed 

 close on his heels, entirely trusting to his local 

 knowledge for a safe passage. Luckily for him, 

 the Cossack was only a featherweight, while the 

 horse he bestrode was one of the largest and most 

 powerful I had seen during my travels ; so that, 

 though the packhorse with his burden was imme- 

 diately upset and washed away, the man, clinging 

 to his horse, which made a gallant swim for it, 

 got safe to shore a long way down stream. I 

 was less lucky than the Cossack, whose fate I had 

 not seen ; for, while half blinded by a vivid flash of 

 lightning, niy wretched little screw toppled over into 

 the deep water, and was immediately carried after its 

 comrade, leaving me to swim for my life in a stream 

 like a mill-race, with my long wetbourka round my 

 neck, hampering my limbs and drowning me with 

 its heavy folds, and a ten-pound ' express ' rifle 

 on my shoulders. It was well for me then that 

 swimming had been one of my favourite forms of 

 athletic exercise in my boyhood, or I should 

 never have managed to extricate my hands from 

 the bourka and make a fight of it with the stream. 



