The devout soul of Tayoga was filled with gratitude.
Even while swimming he looked up at the great star that he could not see beyond the thick veil of cloud, but, knowing it was there, he returned thanks to the mighty Onondaga chieftain who had saved them so often.
"The canoe retreats before us, Dagaeoga," he said, "but it is not to escape us, it is to beckon us on, out of the path of Tandakora's boats which soon may be returning again and which will now come farther out into the lake, thinking that we may possibly have made a dash under the cover of the mists." "What you predict is already coming true, Tayoga," said Robert, "because I hear the first faint dip of their paddles once more, and they can't be more than two hundred yards behind us." The regular swishing grew louder and came closer, but the courage of the two youths was still high.

They had been drawn on so steadily by the canoe, apparently in a predestined course, and they had been victors over so many dangers, that they were confident the boats of Tandakora would pass once more and leave them unseen.
"They're almost abreast of us now, Tayoga," said Robert.
"Aye, Dagaeoga," said the Onondaga, looking back.

"They do not appear through the mist and we hear only the paddles, but we know the threat is there, and we can follow them as well with ear as with eye.

They keep straight on, going back toward the north.

Nothing tells them we are here, as our canoe beckons to us, nothing guides them to that for which they are looking.