Before another word was uttered, their attention was attracted by a
large mass floating down the river.
"What's that, Thomas?" said Alec. "I houp it winna tak' awa' the brig."
He meant the wooden bridge a few hundred yards below them, which,
inaccessible from either side, was now very little above the level of
the water.
"It's jist the riggin' o' some cottar's bit hoosie," answered Thomas.
"What's come o' them that was aneath it, the Lord only kens. The
water's jist liftit the roof bodily. There it gangs--throu' aneath the
brig.--The brig's doon. It's no doon.--It's stan'in' yet.--But the puir
fowk, Alec!--Eh, gin they warna preparet! Think o' that, Alec."
"I houp they wan oot," answered Alec.
"Houps are feckless things, Alec," returned Thomas, censoriously.
But the talk was turned into another channel by the appearance--a few
ridges off--for they were standing in a field--of Truffey, who, with
frantic efforts to get on, made but little speed, so deep did his
crutch sink in the soaked earth. He had to pull it out at every step,
and seemed mad in his foiled anxiety to reach them. He tried to shout,
but nothing was heard beyond a crow like that of a hoarse chicken.
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