re the sweep had been. The
blade of it was gone. Kent was conscious of hearing a little cry from
the girl at his side, and then her fingers were gripping tightly again
about his thumb. No longer possessed of the power of guidance, the scow
swung sideways. It swept past the wooded point. The white maelstrom of
the lower rapids seized upon it. And Kent, looking ahead to the black
maw of the death-trap that was waiting for them, drew Marette close in
his arms and held her tight.

CHAPTER XXII

For a brief space after the breaking of the scow-sweep Kent did not
move. He felt Marette's arms closing tighter and tighter around his
neck. He caught a flash of her upturned face, the flush of a few
moments before replaced by a deathly pallor, and he knew that without
explanation on his part she understood the almost hopeless situation
they were in. He was glad of that. It gave him a sense of relief to
know that she would not go into a panic, no matter what happened. He
bowed his face to hers, so that he felt the velvety smoothness of her
cheek. She turned her mouth to him, and they kissed. His embrace was
crushing for a moment, fierce with his love for her, desperate with his
determination to keep her from harm.

His brain was working swiftly. There was possibly one chance in ten
that the scow--rudderless and without human guidance--would sweep
safely between the black walls and jagged teeth of the Chute. Even if
the scow made this passage, they would be in the power of the Police,
unless some splendid whimsicality of Fate sent it ashore before the
launch came through.

On the other hand, if it was carried far enough through the lower
rapids, they might swim. And--there was the rifle laying across the
pack. That, after all, was his greatest hope--if the scow made the
passage of the Chute. The bulwarks of the scow would give them greater
protection than the thinner walls of the launch would give to their
pursuers. In his heart there raged suddenly a hatred for that Law of
which he had been a part. It was running them to destruction, and he
would fight. There would not be more than three men in the launch, and
he would kill them, if killing became a necessity.

They were speeding like an unbridled race-horse through the boiling
rapids now. The clumsy craft under their feet twisted and turned. The
dripping tops of great rocks shot past a little out of their channel.
And Marette, with one arm still about his neck, was fa