"'Softly, oh, soft! Let us rest on the oar
And vex not a billow that sighs to the shore.'"
Meanwhile Dick Travers directed the rays of the lantern toward the bank. They flitted fantastically from tree to tree, now darting between and dragging into view some delicate tracery beyond, then shooting across the inky black water, revealing lilies and rushes.
The steady, rhythmic sound of the paddle, barely heard above the soft lament of the pines, the faint gurgle of the water, and the easy, gliding motion, produced a dreamy, unreal effect, which charmed the Ramblers and soon lulled one of them to sleep.
But Dick was ever alert. He strained his ears and eyes for the fairest evidence which might indicate the presence of some wild animal, but without avail.
Still Hank Merwin paddled on—his muscular arms seemed tireless—and still Dick shot the blinding glare over water and shore. The end of the lake was reached. Looming faintly against the sky, they now saw a great snow-capped peak, and Dick Travers caught a low, musical murmur.
"A cascade," he whispered, and Hank, who had heard him, grunted affirmatively.
Dick began to feel that his chances of getting a photograph were very slim indeed.
A half hour passed; then a faint sound set his nerves to tingling.
"Hank—Hank!" he whispered.