A desire came upon her to pluck some of these flowers, and the water was shallow; surely she could wade to the island, or if not what did it matter?
Then she could turn to the bank again, or she might stay to sleep a while in the water; what did it matter?
She stepped from the bank--how sweet and cool it felt to her feet! Now it was up to her knees, now it reached her middle, and now the little wavelets beat against her breast.

But she would not go back, for there ahead of her was the island, and the white flowers were so close that she could count them, eight upon one bunch and twelve upon the next.

Another step and the water struck her in the face, one more and it closed above her head.
She rose, and a low cry broke from her lips.
Then, as in a dream, Lysbeth saw a skiff glide out from among the rushes before her.

She saw also a strange mutilated face, which she remembered dimly, bending over the edge of the boat, and a long, brown hand stretched out to clasp her, while a hoarse voice bade her keep still and fear nothing.
After this came a sound of singing in her ears and--darkness.
When Lysbeth woke again she found herself lying upon the ground, or rather upon a soft mattress of dry reeds and aromatic grasses.

Looking round her she saw that she was in a hut, reed-roofed and plastered with thick mud.