Through a break in the trees he caught the green sweep of marsh rice and his heart beat excitedly with hope.

Where there was rice there were wild-fowl, and surely where there were wild-fowl, there would be a punt or a canoe! In his eagerness he ran, and where the path ended, the flags and rice beaten into the mud and water, he stopped with an exultant cry.
At his feet was a canoe.

It was wet, as though just drawn out of the water, and a freshly used paddle was lying across the bow.

Pausing but to take a quick and cautious glance about him he shoved the frail craft into the lake and with a few quiet strokes buried himself in the rice grass.

When he emerged from it he was half a mile from the shore.
For a long time he sat motionless, looking out over the shimmering sea.
Far to the south and west he could make out the dim outline of Beaver Island, while over the trail he had come, mile upon mile, lay the glistening dunes.