Outside the furious mid-stream rush of the current, dark eddies revolved in angry circles and their backwash weltered along the bank.

Thirlwell seemed to be steering for this belt and Agatha thought he meant to run down through the slack.

As they swerved towards the rocks she looked round sharply, for there was a shout from the canoe astern-- "_Voici qui ven!_" An indistinct figure scrambled along the rough bank, turning and twisting among the driftwood and boulders.

For the most part, the bank was in shadow, but in places where the trees were not so thick the moonlight pierced the gloom.
"But he run!" exclaimed the _Metis_ in Thirlwell's canoe.

"Lak' caribou, _vent' a terre_." "_Pren' garde!_" said Thirlwell warningly, and thrust hard with his paddle as the canoe drove past a foam-lapped rock.
"It is the chase he make," the half-breed resumed, and another figure came out of the gloom, a short distance in front of the one they had seen.
The man moved feebly, stumbling now and then, but it was obvious that he meant to keep ahead of his pursuer.