The bridge stood as she had seen it on the yesterday—­slender, strong, superb in the simplicity of its splendid outline; but beneath it and as far as her eyes could follow the river she saw, not the solid spread of white to which she had become accustomed, but a moving expanse of floes.  At first the winter burden slipped past in huge masses, acres in extent, but soon these began to be rent apart; irregular black seams ran through them, opened, closed, and threw up ridges of ice-shavings as they ground together.  The floes were rubbing against the banks, they came sliding out over the dry shore like tremendous sheets of cardboard manipulated by unseen hands, and not until their nine-foot edges were exposed to view did the mind grasp the appalling significance of their movement.  They swept down in phalanxes upon the wedge-like ice-breakers which stood guard above the bridge-piers, then they halted, separated, and the armored cutting-edges sheared through them like blades.

A half-mile below, where the Salmon flung itself headlong against the upper wing of Jackson Glacier, the floating ice was checked by the narrowed passageway.  There a jam was forming, and as the river heaved and tore at its growing burden a spectacular struggle went on.  The sound of it came faintly but impressively to the watchers—­a grinding and crushing of bergs, a roar of escaping waters.  Fragments were up-ended, masses were rearing themselves edgewise into the air, were overturning and collapsing.  They were wedging themselves into every conceivable angle, and the crowding procession from above was adding to the barrier momentarily.  As the passageway became blocked the waters rose; the river piled itself up so swiftly that the eye could note its rise along the banks.

But the attention of the crowd was divided between the jam and something far out on the bridge itself.  At first glance Eliza did not comprehend; then she heard a man explaining: 

“He was going out when we got here, and now he won’t come back.”

The girl gasped, for she recognized the distant figure of a man, dwarfed to puny proportions by the bulk of the structure in the mazes of which he stood.  The man was O’Neil; he was perched upon one of the girders near the center of the longest span, where he could watch the attack upon the pyramidal ice-breakers beneath him.

“He’s a fool,” said some one at Eliza’s back.  “That jam is getting bigger.”

“He’d better let the damned bridge take care of itself.”

She turned and began to force her way through the press of people between her and the south abutment.  She arrived there, disheveled and panting, to find Slater, Mellen, and Parker standing in the approach.  In front of them extended the long skeleton tunnel into which Murray had gone.

“Mr. O’Neil is out there!” she cried to Tom.

Slater turned and, reading the tragic appeal in her face, said reassuringly: