But in the swamp, as he went on, he saw nothing but shadow, and heard
weird and nameless sounds which made his blood creep, even though his
courage was now full-grown within him.

He was not frightened at the ugly sputter of the owls, as in the days of
old. Their throaty menace and snapping beaks did not stop him nor turn
him aside. The slashing scrape of claws in the bark of trees and the
occasional crackling of brush were matters of intimate knowledge, and
he gave but little attention to them in his eagerness to reach those
who had gone ahead of him. What troubled him, and filled his eyes with
sudden red glares, were the oily gurgles of the pitfalls which tried to
suck him down; the laughing madness of muck that held him as if living
things were in it, and which spluttered and coughed when he freed
himself.

Half blinded at times, so that even the black shadows were blotted out,
he went on. And at last, coming again to the edge of the stream, he
heard a new kind of sound--the slow, steady dipping of Breault's pole.

He hurried on, finding harder ground under his feet, and came
noiselessly abreast of the man on his raft of cedar timbers. He could
almost hear his breathing. And very faintly he could see in the vast
gloom a shadow--a shadow that moved slowly against the background of a
still deeper shadow beyond.

But there was no scent of Nada or Jolly Roger, and whatever desire
had risen in him to make himself known was smothered by caution and
suspicion. After this he did not go ahead of Breault, but kept behind
him or abreast of him, within sound of the dipping pole. And every
minute his heart thumped expectantly, and he sniffed the new air for
signs of those he most desired to find.

Dawn was breaking in the sky when they came out of the swamp, and the
first flush of the sun was lighting up the east when Breault headed his
improvised craft for the sandbar upon which Nada and McKay had rested
many hours before.

Breault was tired, but his eyes lighted up when he saw the footprints in
the sand, and he chuckled--almost good humoredly. As a matter of fact
he was in a good humor. But one would not have reckoned it as such in
Breault. A hard man, the forests called him; a man with the hunting
instincts of the fox and the wolf and the merciless persistency of the
weazel--a man who lived his code to the last letter of the law, without
pity and without favoritism. At least so he was judged, and his hard,
narrow eyes,