He was not free from superstition, and the evil-omened bird was no friend of his.

He would rather not have heard its harsh note just at this time; and he could have wished that the river did not look so inky black, or that the trees did not cast such weird shadows.
But the tide ran strong beneath the overhanging bank, and Cuthbert was carried onwards without any effort of his own.

There was something just a little uncanny in this swift force.

It reminded Cuthbert of relentless destiny sweeping him onward whether or not he would go.
But it was too late to consider or turn back even if such had been his desire.

Already he began to see white gleams as of stone work along the water's edge.