Swift as the hunted stag springs from his covert, and bounds over every obstacle with speed and apparent ease, so sprang the chief of the Nor’-westers down the rugged path which led to the foot of the series of rapids, and the lower end of the portage. There was good grit in the man, morally and physically, for he was bent on a rescue which involved considerable danger.
Throwing off his capote, and tightening his belt, he stood on a ledge just below the last fall, intently watching the water.
The fall was not high, but it was deep, and rushed into a large dark basin with terrible velocity, causing the tormented foam-speckled water to circulate round its edges. In a few moments the form of Dan was seen to shoot down the fall and disappear in the basin. The chief stooped, but did not spring until, not far from him, the apparently inanimate form reappeared on the surface and began to circle slowly round among the flecks of foam. Then he plunged, swam out with powerful strokes, and quickly returned to the shore with Dan in his grasp.
Soon they were surrounded by the other voyageurs, who had left La Certe to look after himself,—not caring much, in the excitement of the moment, whether he escaped or not.
“He is dead,” said one; “he breathes not; and see how his face is bruised and cut.”
“And his chest, too,” said another. “I think his ribs have been broken. Poor fellow! It was a wild, a reckless jump!”
“Keep back, and let him have air,” said the chief, who was doing his best, according to his knowledge, to resuscitate Dan.
Presently La Certe arrived, panting.
“O! he is gone! My comrade, my friend, is dead!” he exclaimed, clenching his hands, and gazing at the pale, bruised face.
“You are wrong,” exclaimed the chief, testily. “Out of the way, man! See! his eyelids quiver.”