Each moment he was carried inch by inch down until he was on the brink of the fall, which, though not high, was a large body of water and fell with a heavy roar.

He raised himself high out of the stream with the vigour of his last struggle, and then fell back into the abyss.
By this time the poor mother was in a canoe as close to the fall as she could with safety approach, and the little bark danced like a cockle-shell on the turmoil of waters as she stood with uplifted paddle and staring eyeballs awaiting the rising of the child.
Crusoe came up almost instantly, but _alone_, for the dash over the fall had wrenched the child from his teeth.

He raised himself high up, and looked anxiously round for a moment.

Then he caught sight of a little hand raised above the boiling flood.

In one moment he had the child again by the hair, and just as the prow of the Indian woman's canoe touched the shore he brought the child to land.
Springing towards him, the mother snatched her child from the flood, and gazed at its death-like face with eyeballs starting from their sockets.