“But of course! He is right, he is, that one!” he murmured.
And he gave out instantly new instructions to his assistants:
“Abandon all work on the ships everyone, at once! And come here. I have a pressing task to give you.”
The one-armed man, however, continued pacing from stern to prow, thrusting his punt pole into the water, and humming:
Yet horses they could find none,
Young lambs they snatched in their stead…
As he moved northwards, however, the water current became ever stronger, and in the end it was so powerful that he could no longer steer with his punt pole.
He headed for the riverbank on his right, and when he had approached it sufficiently with his feluccas, he leapt to the shore.
He uncoiled the rope, tied it around his waist, and slowly, but at a steady pace, he walked up along the riverbank, tugging his home behind him.
The water was running southward with great momentum, yet the one-armed man did not stop. Rivers of sweat trickled down his forehead, his mouth was parched, his tongue was panting, the veins and arteries on his neck were swollen to bursting point from the great endeavour. His steady step, however, never faltered.
He reached Fool’s Eddy, tied the rope around a tree, and lay down on the grass to regain his breath.
Suddenly he heard the mad galloping of a horse. The one-armed man rose, yet before he could make out what was happening, the horse and its rider had charged out from the woods and collapsed in front of him.
In the flicker of a second, the rider untangled himself from the stirrups, and got up from the ground.
The one-armed man with a leap ran then to the tree, and cut the rope.
“Quick!” he cried. “Jump inside.”
He leapt into the boat with Polydorus, and pulled in the remaining length of rope.
The current carried them off, and the feluccas found themselves instantly midstream, moving southwards at great speed.
At that very moment, a great cloud of arrows flew out of the woods, falling in a shower around them, splattering the two men with spray as they struck the water.
And the riverbank swarmed up with soldiers.
The one-armed man saluted them with a low bow.
“You may shoot all you want, now!” he cried out.
Indeed, the river, very rapid and somewhat wider at that point, was taking them farther and farther away from the enemy’s side.
The one-armed man had gathered up his rope and was tidying it up calmly.
“Did you accomplish your mission?” he asked.
“Yes!” replied Polydorus.
“Yet you rode your horse to its death.”
“It was one of their own. I took it from them. Mine died earlier on the way. But tell me, how did you know I would get here so fast and manage to be at our meeting point on time?”
“You were in a hurry. I knew that if you could find a horse, you would take it. I reckoned that you would be galloping whip and spur.”
“You reckoned well. Had you not been there, as if by some miracle, I might never have lived to see again the bright eyes of the Prince, and for their sake I would sacrifice my very life!”
The bargeman, after coiling the rope neatly on the prow, came and sat by the equerry’s side.
“Do not rejoice quite so soon,” he said quietly, “for you have not seen them yet, those eyes you speak of.”
Polydorus shuddered.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
The one-armed man nodded towards the mainland with his head.
“Our guests are following us,” he said.
“Yes, I can see them, but they are far away. The river is broad, and their arrows cannot reach us.”
“They will, farther south.”
“The river narrows there?”
“Yes.”
The equerry paused for some time to gather his thoughts.
“Is there nothing to be done?” he asked.
“Yes, there is. I shall take my punt pole when the time comes. Now it’s of no use. The river carries us more swiftly.”
“Whatever it should take, I must get through,” said the equerry.
And he asked:
“You know these parts well?”
“Yes.”
“And do you think we can get through the strait?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Onearm,” said the equerry, “one of us must get through.”
And pointing to the large leather money belt around his waist, he added:
“This must be delivered into the hands of the Prince.”
The one-armed man smiled.
“Well, then, put it rather in my bedroom,” he said. “My house will always get through. You or I, however, might not come out of this alive.”
“But if the risk is so great, why don’t we get ashore now?” asked Polydorus.
“You say you are in a hurry to get to where you are going.”
“Yes! But we could reach the capital on foot.”
“There is no path.”
“We can cross the mountain.”
“Only of you had wings could you get through that way. The crevasses are impenetrable, and the mountain snow eternal,” replied the one-armed man.
“And is there no other way?”
“A speedy way, you mean? No, there is none.”
For some time the river carried them on, each sunk in his own silence.
They gazed without speaking at the waters, which tapered sharply to a narrow bottleneck between the riverbanks.
All of a sudden, the one-armed man rose to his feet; he seized his punt pole and he thrust it with great force into the riverbed. Fright and Turmoil swivelled around abruptly and came out of the midstream, heading towards the left bank.
“What is the matter?” asked Polydorus.
The one-armed man, however, had no time to reply, for five or six arrows dug themselves viciously into the sides of the feluccas; at the same time, several riders in full armour appeared through the trees on their right.
“The fun is about to begin,” said the one-armed man.
The current was strong at the straits, and the bargeman could only steer his boats with extreme effort. He knew he could not get too close to the left bank: at the roots of the mountain, black rocks, which jutted out now and then from beneath the waters, posed a nasty hazard for the old rotting timbers of Fright and Turmoil.
“Are we still far away?” asked the equerry.
“No,” replied the one-armed man. “If we can make it past the strait, we shall be safe.”
And bending down swiftly, he dodged an arrow, which flew past him only to bury itself into Polydorus’s shoulder.
Pulling out his punt pole, the one-armed man hurried to the equerry’s side.
“You have been wounded!” he cried out.
“It is nothing, barely a scratch,” replied the equerry. “But for God’s sake, plunge in your punt pole, push, the current is carrying us back midstream once more.”
The one-armed man ran to the prow and thrust his punt pole into the riverbed.
Yet suddenly his legs buckled under him; he advanced but a single step, lunged bodily forward, and fell into the water.
“Onearm!” cried Polydorus frantically.
“Preseeeent…” came the drowning voice of the one-armed man.
For one instant longer his bloodied face lingered on the watery surface. He stretched out his hand for help — perhaps for a final farewell — and then the river covered him with its silver shroud.
The arrows came whistling like a hailstorm all around the feluccas, which were being carried midstream yet again.
Polydorus had seized the punt pole and with great force he was thrusting it into the riverbed.
At that same instant, an arrow pierced his brow and threw him down on his knees. He hurriedly wiped away the blood that was blinding him, and tried to stand up. Yet another arrow dug itself into his chest; the punt pole slipped through his hands, and was carried away by the river.