set off to advantage by his flaming head-band.

Into the stillness crept a sound--the far-off roar of a rapid. Sullen,
and dull, it scarce broke the monotony of the silence--low, yet ever
increasing in volume.

"Another portage?" wearily asked the girl.

Vermilion shook his head. "_Non_, eet ees de Chute. Ten miles of de
wild, fast wataire, but safe--eef you know de way. Me--Vermilion--I'm
tak' de scow t'rough a hondre tam--_bien_!"

"But, you can't make it in the dark!"

Vermilion laughed. "We mak' de camp to-night. To-mor', we run de
Chute." He reached for the light pole with which he indicated the
channel to the steersman, and beat sharply upon the running-board that
formed the gunwale of the scow. Sleepily the five sprawling forms
stirred, and awoke to consciousness. Vermilion spoke a guttural jargon
of words and the men fumbled the rude sweeps against the tholes. The
other three scows drifted lazily in the rear and, standing upon the
running-board, Vermilion roared his orders. Figures in the scows
stirred, and sweeps thudded against thole-pins. The roar of the Chute
was loud, now--hoarse, and portentous of evil.

The high banks on either side of the river drew closer together, the
speed of the drifting scows increased, and upon the dark surface of the
water tiny whirlpools appeared. Vermilion raised the pole above his
head and pointed toward a narrow strip of beach that showed dimly at
the foot of the high bank, at a point only a few hundred yards above