uarter of a mile above him he could see the white spume between the
chasm walls, darkening with the approach of night. He could hear more
clearly the roar of the death-floods. But close to him was smooth
water, and he stood now on a shelving tongue of rock and shale, upon
which the current had flung him. In front of him was a rock wall.
Behind him was another. There was no footing except where he stood. And
Marette was not with him.

Only the truth could batter at his brain as he stood there. But his
physical self refused to accept that truth. If he had lived, she must
live! She was there--somewhere--along the shore--among the rocks--

The moaning in his throat gave way to the voicing of her name. He
shouted, and listened. He swayed back along the tongue of rock to the
boulder-strewn edge of the chasm wall. A hundred yards farther on was
the opening of the Chute. He came out of this, his clothes torn from
him, his body bleeding, unrecognizable, half a madman,--shouting her
name more and more loudly. The glow of the setting sun struck him at
last. He was out from between the chasm walls, and it lighted up the
green world for him. Ahead of him the river widened and swept on in
tranquil quiet.

And now it was no longer fear that possessed him. It was the horrible,
overwhelming certainty of the thing. The years fell from him, and he
sobbed--sobbed like a boy stricken by some great childish grief, as he
searched along the edge of the shore. Over and over again he cried and
whispered Marette's name.

But he did not shout it again, for he knew that she was dead. She was
gone from him forever. Yet he did not cease to search. The last of the
sun went out. Twilight came, and then darkness. Even in that darkness
he continued to search for a mile below the Chute, calling her name
more loudly now, and listening always for the answer which he knew
would never come. The moon came out after a time, and hour after hour
he kept up his hopeless quest. He did not know how badly the rocks had
battered and hurt him, and he scarcely knew when it was that exhaustion
dropped him like a dead man in his tracks. When dawn came, it found him
wandering away from the river, and toward noon of that day, he was
found by Andre Boileau, the old white-haired half-breed who trapped on
Burntwood Creek. Andre was shocked at the sight of his wounds and half
dragged and half carried him to his shack hidden away in the forest.

For six days thereafter Kent