She had heard a whisper as she wandered among the pine-trees there at
Manitou, and it said simply the one word, "Now!" She knew that she must
do it; she had driven her canoe out into the resistless current to ride
the Rapids of Carillon. Her Other Self had whispered to her.

Yonder, thousands of miles away in Syria, there were the Hills of
Lebanon; and there was one phrase which made every Syrian heart beat
faster, if he were on the march. It was, "The Druses are up!" When
that wild tribe took to the saddle to war upon the Caravans and against
authority, from Lebanon to Palmyra, from Jerusalem to Damascus men looked
anxiously about them and rode hard to refuge.

And here also in the Far North where the River Sagalac ran a wild race to
Carillon, leaving behind the new towns of Lebanon and Manitou, "the
Druses were up."

The daughter of Gabriel Druse, the giant, was riding the Rapids of the
Sagalac. The suspense to her and to those who watched her course--to
Tekewani and his braves, to Osterhaut and Jowett--could not be long.
It was a matter of minutes only, in which every second was a miracle
and might be a catastrophe.

From rock to rock, from wild white water to wild white water she sped,
now tossing to death as it seemed, now shooting on safely to the next
test of skill and courage--on, on, till at last there was only one
passage to make before the canoe would plunge into the smooth water
running with great swiftness till it almost reached Carillon.

Suddenly, as she neared the last dangerous point, round which she must