He would lie in hiding until dusk, and then under cover of darkness he would hunt down Strang and kill him.
After that he would fly to his canoe and escape.

A little later, perhaps that very night if fate played the game well for him, he would return for Marion.

And yet, as he went over and over his scheme, whipping himself into caution--into cool deliberation--there burned in his blood a fire that once or twice made him set his teeth hard, a fire that defied extinction, that smoldered only to await the breath that would fan it into a fierce blaze.

It was the fire that had urged him into the rescue at the whipping-post, that had sent him single-handed to invade the king's castle, that had hurled him into the hopeless battle upon the shore.

He swore at himself softly, laughingly, as he paddled steadily toward Beaver Island.
The sun mounted straight and hot over his head; he paddled more slowly, and rested more frequently, as it descended into the west, but it still lacked two hours of sinking behind the island forest when the white water-run of the shore came within his vision.