racing along at twelve kilometers an hour soon took us well into hungary , and the muddy waters -- sure sign of flood -- sent us aground on many a shingle-bed , and twisted us like a cork in many a sudden belching whirlpool before the towers of pressburg ( hungarian , poszony ) showed against the sky ; and then the canoe , leaping like a spirited horse , flew at top speed under the grey walls , negotiated safely the sunken chain of the fliegende brucke ferry , turned the corner sharply to the left , and plunged on yellow foam into the wilderness of islands , sandbanks , and swamp-land beyond -- the land of the willows .