The river wound from side to side erratically, and the cliffs seemed to be higher. None of the enemy were now in sight. Ahead, and on both sides, mountains many thousands of feet high appeared to hem the stream in completely. The surroundings reminded George of the scenery in the fjords of Norway, or the lochs in Scotland: its rugged majesty was softened by the sun’s engilding rays.
Never very wide, the river at length narrowed to little more than a gorge, with almost perpendicular walls, several hundred feet high, descending into the water. It was hard to imagine that the stream could find a way through what appeared to be a solid barrier of rock; but as the gyro-boat sped on upon the quickening current, there was always a bend where the river swept round a bluff.
The boat was now rushing on at a greatly accelerated pace, and the proximity of the rapids warned George to stop the propeller. There might be just the possibility of running into some creek or upon some level bank if the rapids proved too dangerous. Almost suddenly they came to a reach where the swirling and foaming of the water told of rocks in the bed of the stream, and there was a perceptible increase of speed. Tense with nervous excitement, George bent forward over the wind-screen, his eyes fixed on the channel, his fingers clutching the steering wheel.
Meanwhile Giorgio, stout-hearted enough on land, cowered like a very craven in the bottom of the boat, ejaculating Aves and Paternosters as fast as the words would pour from his lips. From moment to moment Maurice and his brother glanced around in search of any possible landing-place or refuge; but on either hand there was nothing but bare rock rising sheer from the stream.
The boat made its own course down the tortuous channel. As the current became ever swifter, it was almost hopeless to attempt to steer: the boat went in whatever direction the seething torrent bore it, swerving to this side and that, dashing between the rocks, shaving their jagged edges, as it seemed, by a hair’s-breadth.
A sudden bend in the river gave the voyagers at once relief and a new alarm. The water ran more smoothly, the worst perils were passed; but the perpendicular walls had given place to banks still steep, but more broken—rather a succession of crags and irregular columns of rock than walls. And here, at several points on the right bank, perched on rocks overhanging the river, stood armed Albanians in wait, while on the hillside above them others were clambering and leaping down to find a post of vantage.
Hitherto the brothers had conversed cheerfully, neither letting the other guess the full measure of his anxiety. But now the moment was too critical for speech. Numerous as were the perils they had met and overcome since they started on their adventurous journey, both recognised that the severest ordeal of all was imminent. They sat firmly in their seats, with tight-closed lips, and eyes fixed straight ahead. Maurice offered no suggestion. He knew that George would act as the emergency demanded. To both it was obvious that the single chance of escape, and that a desperate one, lay in rushing past the enemy at the highest speed of which the boat was capable. The Albanians had been hurrying over a toilsome path; even allowing for the short cuts, they must have made extreme haste to arrive at this spot before the boat, favoured as it had been by a current of ten miles an hour. The Bucklands knew from experience how detrimental to steady aiming is such violent exertion, and both nourished a faint hope that the Albanians’ arms would prove too unsteady to take good aim at a rapidly-moving target.
It was no time for half-measures. George started the motor. The effect did not become manifest for some few seconds; but then, under the combined impulse of current and propeller, the boat shot forward at the rate of at least seventeen miles an hour—a desperate speed considering the rocky nature of the channel.
THE RAPIDS OF THE BLACK DRIN