cing the peril
ahead with him. They could see the Dragon's Tooth, black and grim,
waiting squarely in their path. In another hundred and twenty seconds
they would be upon it--or past it. There was no time for Kent to
explain. He sprang to his pack, whipped a knife from his pocket, and
cut the stout babiche rope that reenforced its straps. In another
instant he was back at Marette's side, fastening the babiche about her
waist. The other end he gave to her, and she tied it about his wrist.
She smiled as she finished the knot. It was a strange, tense little
smile, but it told him that she was not afraid, that she had great
faith in him, and knew what the babiche meant.

"I can swim, Jeems," she cried. "If we strike the rock."

She did not finish because of the sudden cry that came to his lips. He
had almost forgotten the most vital of all things. There was not time
to unlace his boots. With his knife he cut the laces in a single
downward thrust. Swiftly he freed his own feet, and Marette's. Even in
this hour of their peril it thrilled him to see how quickly Marette
responded to the thoughts that moved him. She tore at her outer
garments and slipped them off as he wriggled out of his heavy shirt. A
slim, white-underskirted little thing, her glorious hair flying in the
wind that came through the Chute, her throat and arms bare, her eyes
shining at Kent, she came again close within his arms, and her lips
framed softly his name. And a moment later she turned her face up, and
cried quickly,

"Kiss me, Jeems--kiss me--"

Her warm lips clung to his, and her bare arms encircled his neck with
the choking grip of a child's. He looked ahead and braced himself on
his feet, and after that he buried one of his hands in the soft mass of
her hair and pressed her face against his naked breast.

Ten seconds later the crash came. Squarely amidships the scow struck
the Dragon's Tooth. Kent was prepared for the shock, but his attempt to
hold his feet, with Marette in his arms, was futile. The bulwark saved
them from crashing against the slippery face of the rock itself. Amid
the roar of water that filled his ears he was conscious of the rending
of timbers. The scow bulged up with the mighty force beneath, and for a
second or two it seemed as though that force was going to overturn and
submerge it. Then slowly it began to slip off the nose of the rock.

Holding to the rail with one hand and clinging to Marette with his
other arm, Kent wa