He went to the edge of the precipice, and Rod forced himself to
follow, though there was in him a powerful inclination to hug close
to the mountain wall. For half a minute he stood fascinated,
terror-stricken, and yet in those thirty seconds he saw that which
would remain with him for a lifetime. Five hundred feet below him the
over-running floods of spring were caught between the ragged edges of
the two chasm walls, beating themselves in their fury to the whiteness
of milk froth, until it seemed as though the earth itself must tremble
under their mad rush. Now and then through the twisting foam there
shot the black crests of great rocks, as though huge monsters of
some kind were at play, whipping the torrent into greater fury, and
bellowing forth thunderous voices when they rose triumphant for an
instant above the sweep of the flood.

All this Rod saw in less than a breath, and he drew back, shivering
in every fiber of his body. But Wabigoon did not move. For several
minutes the Indian youth stood looking down upon the wonderful force
at play below him, his body as motionless as though hewn out of stone,
the wild blood in his veins leaping in response to the tumult and
thunder of the magnificent spectacle deep down in the chasm. When he
turned to Rod his lips made no sound, but his eyes glowed with that
half-slumbering fire which came only when the red blood of the
princess mother gained ascendency, and the wild in him called out
greeting to the savage in nature. It is not music, or fine talk, or
artificial wonders that waken a thrill deep down in the Indian soul,
it is the great mountain, the vast plain, the roaring cataract! And so
it was with Wabigoon.

They went on, now, with the canoe upon their shoulders, and hugging
close to the mountain wall. Slowly, avoiding every stone and stick