The cries behind veered and deadened, and suddenly Wilson in the prow raised his blade.
Maren leaned behind him and looked into the shadows.
On every side dark shapes covered the face of the stream like water-bugs, from every side there came the “whoo-sh-st-whoo-sh” of dipping paddles, the little plank and rattle of their shafts against gunwales.
They had glided into the midst of a flotilla of canoes travelling at night and in silence.
The maid from Grand Portage threw up her head.
“In among them,” she whispered, “quick! Deep as we can!”
“But, Ma'amselle,” whispered back Wilson, “they may be Indians.”
“What matters? A chance is a chance, and who would not risk its turning?”
Unconsciously she was quoting that kinsman whose dauntless courage and love of venture had found its last thrill in covering her retreat in the gorge.
“In among them! Deep!”