She caught his excited hand in hers and detained him. "But, listen.
Suppose the upper jam breaks and the lower jam holds?"

He looked at her steadily till he grasped the full import. His face
flushed, and with a quick intake of the breath he straightened up and
threw back his head. He made a sweeping gesture as though to include
the island. "Then you, and I, the tent, the boats, cabins, trees,
everything, and La Bijou! Pouf! and all are gone, to the devil!"

Frona shook her head. "It is too bad."

"Bad? Pardon. Magnificent!"

"No, no, baron; not that. But that you are not an Anglo-Saxon. The
race could well be proud of you."

"And you, Frona, would you not glorify the French!"

"At it again, eh? Throwing bouquets at yourselves." Del Bishop
grinned at them, and made to depart as quickly as he had come. "But
twist yourselves. Some sick men in a cabin down here. Got to get 'em
out. You're needed. And don't be all day about it," he shouted over
his shoulder as he disappeared among the trees.

The river was still rising, though more slowly, and as soon as they
left the high ground they were splashing along ankle-deep in the water.
Winding in and out among the trees, they came upon a boat which had
been hauled out the previous fall. And three _chechaquos_, who had
managed to get into the country thus far over the ice, had piled
themselves into it, also their tent, sleds, and dogs. But the boat was
perilously near the ice-gorge, which growled and wrestled and
over-topped it a bare dozen feet away.

"Come! Get out of this, you fools!" Jacob Welse shouted as he went
past.

Del Bishop had told them to "get the hell out of there" when he ran by,
and they could not understand. One of them turned up an unheeding,
terrified face. Another lay prone and listless across the thwarts as
though bereft of strength; while the third, with the face of a clerk,
rocked back and forth and moaned monotonously, "My God! My God!"

The baron stopped long enough to shake him. "Damn!" he cried. "Your
legs, man!--not God, but your legs! Ah! ah!--hump yourself! Yes,
hump! Get a move on! Twist! Get back from the bank! The woods, the
trees, anywhere!"

He tried to drag him out, but the man struck at him savagely and held
back.

"How one collects the vernacular," he confided proudly to Frona as they
hurried on. "Twist! It is a strong word, and suitable."

"You should travel with Del," she laughed. "He'd