did not know; she only knew that she would do it some day; and the day
had come. For long it had been an obsession with her--as though some
spirit whispered in her ear--"Do you hear the bells ringing at Carillon?
Do you hear the river singing towards Carillon? Do you see the wild
birds flying towards Carillon? Do you hear the Rapids calling--the
Rapids of Carillon?"

Night and day since she had braved death with Tekewani, giving him a gun,
a meerschaum pipe, and ten pounds of beautiful brown "plug" tobacco as a
token of her gratitude--night and day she had heard this spirit murmuring
in her ear, and always the refrain was, "Down the stream to Carillon!
Shoot the Rapids of Carillon!"

Why? How should she know? Wherefore should she know? This was of the
things beyond the why of the human mind. Sometimes all our lives, if we
keep our souls young, and see the world as we first saw it with eyes and
heart unsoiled, we hear the murmuring of the Other Self, that Self from
which we separated when we entered this mortal sphere, but which followed
us, invisible yet whispering inspiration to us. But sometimes we only
hear It, our own soul's oracle, while yet our years are few, and we have
not passed that frontier between innocence and experience, reality and
pretence. Pretence it is which drives the Other Self away with wailing
on its lips. Then we hear It cry in the night when, because of the
trouble of life, we cannot sleep; or at the play when we are caught away
from ourselves into another air than ours; when music pours around us
like a soft wind from a garden of pomegranates; or when a child asks a
question which brings us back to the land where everything is so true
that it can be shouted from the tree-tops.

Why was Fleda Druse tempting death in the Carillon Rapids?