Effie St. Pierre sprung into the bark, and the scout followed.
“Now for the gantlet!” he said, as he seized the paddle.
The boat shot from the shore; a yell burst from the red-skins below, which was quickly answered by the British above. Effie griped the scout’s trusty rifle.
A few strokes sent them around the southern point of the island, and the canoe burst upon the vision of the Britons.
A cry of astonishment greeted the daring voyagers.
Mark Morgan guided the boat toward the right bank of the stream, and, as if to aid them, clouds flitted before the bright disk of the moon.
“Shoot them! shoot them!” shouted a stentorian voice from the bank.
The soldiers in mid-stream threw to their shoulders the rifles which they had kept above their heads, and half a dozen flashes greeted the occupants of the canoe. The balls flew over their heads, and struck the spongy cottonwoods that clothed the bank, with dull thuds.
The spy laughed as the bullets whistled over them, and glancing up at the clouds, gradually passing before the queen of night, drove his boat swifter through the placid water, and soon they were out of range—for the moment were safe.
Then Mark Morgan lessened his speed, and bade Effie take the paddle.