They were, he fancied, at least a thousand feet above him, and he and Okanagan alone far down in the dimness of another world with their helpless companion.

Then he nerved himself for an effort as he looked forward into the spray and vapour that whirled in denser clouds ahead.

Nothing was visible through its filmy folds, but his flesh shrank from the tumult of sound that came out of it.
"Hold her straight," cried Okanagan, in a breathless roar, and Seaforth just heard his voice through the diapason of the river.
Then the canoe lurched beneath them, and sped faster still, plunging, rocking, rolling, while the froth beat into her, and Seaforth whirled his paddle in a frenzy.

The shrinking had gone, and he was only conscious of a curious unreasoning exaltation.

A pinnacle of rock flashed by them, there was a roar from Tom, and straining every sinew on the paddle they swung, with eyes dilated and laboured breath, sideways towards the wall of stone.