pursued. Triumph, savage, unrelenting triumph filled the soul
of the Wyandot. It had been his fortune to make the find, and the trophy
of victory should be his. It never entered into his head that he should
spare, and, putting the paddle in the boat, he raised the rifle from his
knees.

The Wyandot was amazed that the head, which rose only a little more than
half above the water, should continue to approach him and his rifle. It
came on so silently and with so little sign of propelling power that he
felt a momentary thrill of superstition. Was it alive? Was it really a
human head with human eyes looking into his own? Or was it some phantasy
that Manitou had sent to bewilder him? He shook with cold, which was not
the cold of the water, but, quieting his nerves, raised his rifle and
fired.

Henry had been calculating upon this effect. He believed that the nerves
of the Wyandot were unsteady and, as he saw his finger press the
trigger, he shot forward and downward with all the impulse that strong
arms and legs could give, the bullet striking spitefully upon the water
where he had been.

It was a great crisis, the kind that seems to tune the faculties of some
to the highest pitch, and Henry's mind was never quicker. He calculated
the length of his dive and came up with his lungs still half full of
air. But he came up, as he had intended, by the side of the canoe.

The Wyandot, angry at the dexterity of the trick played upon him, and
knowing now that it was no phantasy of Manitou, but a dangerous human
being with whom he had to deal, was looking over the side of the canoe,
tomahawk in hand, when the head came up on the other side. He whirled
instantly at the sound of splashing water and drew back to strike. But a
strong arm shot up, clutched his, another seized him by the waist, and
in a flash he was dragged into the river.

Henry and the warrior, struggling in the arms of each other, sank deep
in the stream, but as they came up they broke loose as if by mutual
consent and floated apart. Henry's head struck lightly against
something, and the fierce cry of joy that comes to one who fights for
his life and who finds fortune kind, burst from him.

It was the canoe, still rocking violently, but not overturned. He
reached out his hand and grasped it. Then, with a quick, light movement,
he drew himself on board.

The Wyandot was fifteen feet away, and once more their eyes met. But the
positions were reversed, and the soul