The Story of Francis Cludde by Stanley J. Weyman

Only to feel that we were moving was a relief, though our march was very slow. Master Bertie carried the child slung in a cloak before him, and, thus burdened, could not well go beyond a smooth amble, while the guides, who were on foot, and the pack-horses, found this pace as much as they could manage. A little while and the exhilaration of the start died away. The fine morning was followed by a wet evening, and before we had left Emmerich three miles behind us Master Bertie and I had come to look at one another meaningly. We were moving in a dreary, silent procession through heavy rain, with the prospect of the night closing in early. The road, too, grew more heavy with each furlong, and presently began to be covered with pools of water. We tried to avoid this inconvenience by resorting to the hill slopes on our left, but found the attempt a waste of time, as a deep stream or backwater, bordered by marshes, intervened. The narrow road, raised but little above the level of the swiftly flowing river on our right, turned out to be our only possible path; and when Master Bertie discerned this his face grew more and more grave.

We soon found, indeed, as we plodded along, that a sheet of water, which palely reflected the evening light, was taking the place of the road; and through this we had to plash and plash at a snail's pace, one of the guides on a pack-horse leading the way, and Master Bertie in charge of his wife coming next; then, at some distance, for her horse did not take kindly to the water, the younger woman followed in my care. The other guide brought up the rear. In this way, stopped constantly by the fears of the horses, which were scared by the expanse of flood before them, we crept wearily on until the moon rose. It brought, alas, an access of light, but no comfort! The water seemed continually to grow deeper, the current on our right swifter; and each moment I dreaded the announcement that farther advance was impossible.