Words can convey to the reader an idea of only those things with which he is familiar, or of which he can form a picture through his imagination, and even when the latter is vivid it must draw largely for its creation on things with which it is somewhat acquainted.
No pen or tongue could properly describe the situation and the feelings of the four human beings who through the long black hours of that night whirled and drifted down through the black depths of the cañon.
As it was useless to stand up and attempt to steer, for he could not see his hand held close before his face, Sam Willett crouched down on the raft, and clung with nervous hands to its trembling timbers.
Now and then they seemed to be floating through quiet waters, but just when hope came to cheer them with the belief that they had passed through the most dangerous part of the current, the raft would be hurled down long lines of rapids, or caught by some projecting rock it would be sent spinning around with a velocity that made the occupants sick with the whirling motion and the fear that the end had come. Such a situation would have tested the strength of the most experienced nerves, even if the midday sun was shining into the chasm, but the darkness added to its terrors and filled the bravest with alarm.
On and on, and on. It seemed to Sam that they were sinking into the bowels of the earth, or flying away through the realms of night and the abode of impenetrable darkness.
Now and then he would look up at the few stars visible in the strip of sky far overhead, to assure himself that he was yet in the world of life and light.
They were floating down a quiet stretch of water when Ike called out in a tremulous voice.
"Say, Mistah Sam, ken yeh heah me?"
"Yes, Ike, I can hear," was the reply.
"How does yeh feel, 'bout dis time?"