She contrasted his manner--quiet, graceful, sure--with that of
Vermilion, the very swing of whose pole proclaimed the vaunting,
arrogant braggart. And she noted the difference in the attitude of the
scowmen toward these two leaders. Their obedience to Vermilion's
orders had been a surly, protesting obedience; while their obedience to
Lapierre's slightest motion was the quiet, alert obedience that
proclaimed him master of men, as his own silent vigilance proclaimed
him master of the roaring waters.

When the sun finally dipped behind the barren scrub-topped hills, the
scows were beached at the mouth of a deep ravine, from whose depths
sounded the trickle of a tiny cascade. Lapierre assisted the women
from the scow, issued a few short commands, and, as if by magic, a
dozen fires flashed upon the beach, and in an incredibly short space of
time Chloe found herself seated upon her blankets inside her
mosquito-barred tent.

Supper over, Harriet Penny immediately sought her bed, and Lapierre led
Chloe to a brightly burning camp-fire.

Nearby other fires burned, surrounded by dark, savage figures that
showed indistinct in the half-light. The girl's eyes rested for a
moment upon Lapierre, whose thin, handsome features, richly tanned by
long exposure to the Northern winds and sun, presented a pleasing
contrast to the swart flat faces of the rivermen, who sat in groups
about their fires, or lay wrapped in their blankets upon the gravel.

"You have decided?" abruptly asked Chloe, in a voice of ill-concealed
eagerness. Lapierre's face became at once grave, and he gazed sombrely