When the entire sleeve became a mere coil of yarn on the earth, she looked away at the rushing flood.
She seemed to measure the distance with her eye. Apparently satisfied with the results, she suddenly took up her quiver, selected an arrow, then began tying one end of the yarn tightly about it.
Then Gordon Duncan understood.
“Good girl!” he murmured. “May God grant you success!”
Setting the arrow to her bow, the girl, aiming high, sent the arrow with the slender line attached speeding across the flood.
That the keen eyed natives on the opposite shore saw and, to an extent, understood, was shown by their sudden grouping beside a long pine that grew at the water’s brink.
“Fell short,” the girl murmured, a note of despair creeping into her voice.
The distance was greater than she thought. The arrow, having curved to the flood, dropped with a splash and being caught in the grip of dark waters, went speeding downstream.
Faye drew the stout yarn line in slowly. It was wet now, heavy. No use to make another try.
But Gordon Duncan carried in his veins the blood of the mighty Bruce. He was engaged in the business of unraveling Faye’s other sleeve.