“I must,” answered Olof in a voice cold and hard as steel, with a ring of confidence that impressed those who heard.

He goes off to the raft, picks out a log and tries its buoyancy with care.  A long pine stem, with the bark off, and floating deep in the water.

“Ah—­he’s choosing a horse of another sort!”

“Tis another sort of rider, too, by his looks.”

Olof was nearing the bridge now—­calmly, without a word, watching the course of the river all the time.  Reaching the bridge, he raised his eyes for a moment, and met the glance of a girl looking down.  A faint smile, and the slightest inclination of the head, no more.

“Good luck to you!” cried several of the onlookers; a certain sympathy was evident among the crowd.

Now he glides under the bridge, on towards the perilous stage of the journey—­all watch with eager eyes.

The strange craft cleaves the waves, sending up spray on either hand—­but the heavy log, floating deep, hardly moves; the steersman keeps his footing steadily as on firm ground.

“That’s the way!  Ah, he knows the sort of craft to choose for the work!”

The log hurries on, the lithe figure bends a little, balancing with the pole.

“Turn off—­turn off!  He’s making straight for the rock!”

He stands poised, with muscles tense, his pole in readiness, his eyes fixed on the whirl about the sunken rock, his knees slightly bent.

A shock—­and he springs deftly in air as the heavy log is thrust backward under him—­taking his footing again as firmly as before.

“Bravo, bravo!  Finely done!”

On again.  A few quick, powerful strokes with the pole—­and the rock that had been his rival’s undoing is safely passed.

“He’ll do it!  He’s the man!” The onlookers were all excitement now.

The speed increases, the lithe figure swaying to either side.  A thrust from the left—­he springs light-footed to meet it.

Once more his body is bent, his pole held firmly, knees crouching deep—­those on the bridge crane their necks to watch.

The next shock comes with a crash that is plainly heard by those upstream; again he springs as the log thrusts back, and comes down neatly as before.  A few paces forward to get his balance, then back a step or two like a tight-rope walker.

“That’s the way, lad!”

“He knows how to dance!”

“Look out for Malli Rock!”

“Ay, if he can clear that!”

Malli Rock stands ready to meet the attack; the rapids are tearing past on either side.

The log comes down, making full towards the smooth, sloping face of the rock.

Olof swerves a little to the right, and leaps off, coming down in a whirl of spray.  The rock has done its part, and sent the end of the log high out of the water; Olof lands on it and goes on again, the log scraping the face of the rock as it passes.