A movement of anxiety on the bridge—­the watchers on the bank spring to their feet.

He is up again, swimming athwart the stream.  A few powerful strokes, and he reaches the dead water close inshore.

Cursing aloud, he sits down and pours the water from his boots.  One of the men posted at Akeanlinna brings him his pole—­but his hat is gone.  He hurries up along the bank.

“Enough—­give over now!” cry those on the bridge.

“Go and tell your mother!” he answers furiously.

“Maybe he’d like to have that chart now, after all,” says one, with a sly glance.

He pulls off his red coat.  “Seeing I’ve lost my hat, I can do without a jacket.”  A blue shirt shows up on the raft; he picks out a fresh log, thrusts it angrily under the boom, and comes floating down towards the bridge.

“Now you can stare till you think you’ll know me again.”

Not a sound from those on the bridge.

The log shoots down, the man stands erect, and passes proudly under the gaze of all.  He plies his pole to the right, and the log swerves a little to the opposite side—­the first obstacle is safely passed, though it almost cost him his footing again.

“Aha!  He’s on his guard this time!  Maybe he’ll do it, after all!”

“Well, he said you’d know him again!” Redjacket’s party are recovering confidence.

The log hurries on, the man balancing carefully with his pole.

Nearing the second rock now—­the figure crouches down and steps a little back.  A sudden shock, a crash—­his pole has broken, and the blue shirt disappears in the rapids.

“Look!  Right down there!  He’ll never get ashore this time.”  The onlookers crowd together, straining to see.

The blue shirt comes into view for a moment.

“He’ll never do it—­’tis right out in midstream.”

“Hi—­look out there on the bank!”

“He’ll be smashed to pieces on the Malli Rock.”

“No, no! he’s too far out.”

The blue shirt is carried past the threatening rock, but making straight for the big raft below.  A clenched hand is raised to bid the men there stand aside—­he will manage alone.  But they take no heed.  One thrusts a pole between the swimmer’s legs as he nears the raft, another grasps him by the neck, and they haul him up—­a heavy pull, with the water striving all the time to suck him under.  Inch by inch the blue shirt rises above the edge.

He limps ashore, supported by a man on either side.  One knee is bleeding.

“’Tis more than man can do!” he cries in a broken voice, shaking his fist toward the bridge.

* * * * *

There is a low murmur of voices on the bridge, an anxious whispering.  Olof picks up his pole.  Close behind him a young girl plucks at the sleeve of an elderly man, and seems to be urging him, entreating....

Moisio turns to Olof.  “Once more I ask of you—­let it be enough.  You have seen how your companion fared.  Do not try it again.”