The world was washed clean, that was
sure. It was muddy under foot, but it was a country where the roads soon
dried, and he would suffer little inconvenience from the storm. He bade
his host good-bye and drove away intent to reach the city in time for
breakfast. He found the roads heavy, and the injury of the storm was
everywhere to be seen. Yet it all did not distract him, for he was
thinking hard of the things that lay ahead of him to do--the
heart-breaking things that his defeat meant to him.
At last he approached a bridge across a stream which had been badly swept
by the storm. It was one of the covered bridges not uncommon in Canada.
It was not long, as the river was narrow, and he did not see that the
middle pier of the bridge had been badly injured. Yet as he entered the
bridge, his horse still trotting, he was conscious of a hollow,
semi-thunderous noise which seemed not to belong to the horse's hoofs and
the iron wheels of the carriage. He raised his eyes to see that the other
end of the bridge was clear, and at that moment he was conscious of an
unsteady motion of the bridge, of a wavering of the roof, and then,
before he had time to do aught, he saw the roof and the sides and the
floor of the bridge collapse and sink slowly down.
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