e ahead. A few moments later he
turned into shore.

From where they landed, a worn trail led up to one of the precipitous
walls of rock and shut in the Big Thunder Rapids. Everything about them
was rock. The trail was over rock, worn smooth by the countless feet of
centuries--clawed feet, naked feet, moccasined feet, the feet of white
men. It was the Great Portage, for animal as well as man. Philip went
up with the pack, and Jeanne followed behind him. The thunder
increased. It roared in their ears until they could no longer hear
their own voices. Directly above the rapids the trail was narrow,
scarcely eight feet in width, shut in on the land side by a mountain
wall, on the other by the precipice. Philip looked behind, and saw
Jeanne hugging close to the wall. Her face was white, her eyes shone
with terror and awe. He spoke to her, but she saw only the movement of
his lips. Then he put down his pack and went close to the edge of the
precipice.

Sixty feet below him was the Big Thunder, a chaos of lashing foam, of
slippery, black-capped rocks bobbing and grimacing amid the rushing
torrents like monsters playing at hide-and-seek. Now one rose high, as
though thrust up out of chaos by giant hands; then it sank back, and
milk-white foam swirled softly over the place where it had been. There
seemed to be life in the chaos--a grim, terrible life whose voice was a
thunder that never died. For a few moments Philip stood fascinated by
the scene below him. Then he felt a touch upon his arm. It was Jeanne.
She stood beside him quivering, dead-white, Almost daring to take the
final step. Philip caught her hands firmly in his own, and Jeanne
looked over. Then she darted back and hovered, shuddering, near the
wall.

The portage was a short one, scarce two hundred yards in length, and at
the upper end was a small green meadow in which river voyagers camped.
It still lacked two hours of dusk when Philip carried over the last of
the luggage.

"We will not camp here," he said to Jeanne pointing to the remains of
numerous fires and remembering Pierre's exhortation. "It is too public,
as you might say. Besides, that noise makes me deaf."

Jeanne shuddered.

"Let us hurry," she said. "I'm--I'm afraid of THAT!"

Philip carried the canoe down to the river, and Jeanne followed with
the bearskins. The current was soft and sluggish, with tiny maelstroms
gurgling up here and there, like air-bubbles in boiling syrup. He only
half launch