Presently his canoe rounded a bend in the stream. Fear gripped their hearts as they watched his bowed form. Every now and then his paddle churned the water into foam, and then relapsed into idleness. As his canoe touched the beach they saw that it was empty.
Stepping on the shore he paused before them. Then fell an awful silence as they looked upon his face. In that face Christianity and primeval passion were waging deadly warfare. The zigzag lightning shot from his eyes, and his voice was as the muttering thunder dying away in the distance. Finally he spoke:
“Listen, O brother of the Rising Sun,
To the woeful tale of Manteo.
Down the sparkling waters of the Occam
Leaped the bounding canoe;
All night the paddles made music
On this side and on that;
Joy sang in the breast of the ‘real man’
As he thought of the corn for the pale face.