After a hundred yards or so they stopped again, and
then they distinctly heard the sound of paddles to their right. It was not
a great splash, but they knew it well. Paul, at the tiller, fancied that
he could see the faces of the savages bending over their paddles. They
were eager, he knew, for their prey, and either chance or instinct had
brought them through the white pall in the right course.
The uncertainty, the fog, and the great mysterious river weighed upon
Paul. He wished, for a moment, that the vapors might lift, and then they
could fight their enemies face to face. He glanced at his own comrades and
they had taken on an unearthly look. Their forms became gigantic and
unreal in the white darkness. As Henry leaned forward to listen better
his figure was distorted like that of a misshapen giant.
"Steer straight toward the north, Paul," he whispered. "We must shake them
off somehow or other."
Silently the boat slid through the water but they heard again those signal
cries, the hoots of the owl and now they were much nearer.
"They must have guessed our course," whispered Henry, "or perhaps they
have heard the splash of an oar now and then. Stop, boys, and let's see if
we can hear their canoes."
Their boat lay under the thick, spreading boughs of some oaks.
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