The canoe drew near the first of the islands and the Indian directed it inshore and in a quiet bay as the canoe floated quietly out of the current, they lifted up their voices and shouted again and again. Except for the of the waters everything was still, and any one on the island must have heard the shouting; but there came no response.  
"No good!" said the Indian, and turned the bow of the canoe to the river once more.
 
Island after island they inspected and hailed; meanwhile keeping a sharp look out on either side of the river, but in vain. They were with shouting when the last of the islands was reached, and on Ainley's face a look of anxiety manifested itself. Landing at the tail of the island the Indian hunted around until he found a dry branch, and this he threw into the water and stood to watch its course as it went down river. The drift of it seemed to be towards a bar on the eastern bank, and towards that, distant perhaps a couple of miles, the course of their canoe was directed. When they reached it, again the Indian landed, and began to inspect the flotsam on the edge of the bank closely. Ainley watched him with . Presently the Indian stooped, and after two or three attempts fished something from the water. He looked at it keenly for a moment, then he gave a shout, and began to walk along the bar towards the canoe.
 
As he came nearer, the white man saw that the object he carried was the spoon end of a paddle. When close at hand the Indian held it out for his .
 
"Him broke," he said in English. "And the break quite fresh."
 
There was no question as to that. Notwithstanding that the paddle had been in the water, the clean wood of the fracture showed quite plainly, and whilst Ainley was looking at it the Indian stretched a finger and to a semi-circular which ran across the broken end.
 
"Him shot!" he announced quite calmly.
 
"Are you sure?" asked Ainley, betraying no particular surprise.
 
The Indian nodded his head gravely, and fitted his little finger in the groove.
 
"Bullet-mark!"
 
Ainley did not dispute the , nor was he greatly troubled by the Indian's contention. He looked round a little anxiously.
 
"But where is the canoe?" he asked. "And Miss Yardely?"
 
The Indian waved a hand down river. "Canoe miss this bar, and go in the current like hell to the meeting of the waters. Better we keep straight on and watch out."
 
As they started down river again, Ainley's face took on a settled look of anxiety. It was now close on midnight, but very light, and on either bank everything could be clearly seen. They kept a sharp look out, but found no further trace of the missing canoe, and the early dawn found them in a quickening current, for the point where the river joined the main stream.
 
Presently it came in sight, and between walls of spruce and a of water they swept into the broader river, which rolled its way towards its outfall in one of the great Northern lakes. The canoe like a frightened horse at the meeting of the waters, and when they were safely through it, Ainley looked back and questioned his companion.
 
"Would Miss Yardely's canoe come through that?"
 
"Like a dry stick," answered the Indian, letting the canoe drift for a moment in order to swing into the main current of the broader stream.
 
Ainley looked ahead. Downstream the river narrowed and the low broad banks about them gradually rose, until they were like high ramparts on either hand. The Indian pointed towards the tree-crowned cliffs.
 
"No good there," he said. "We land here, and make grub; walk down and see what water like."
 
It seemed to Ainley the only sensible thing to do, and he did not . Accordingly, the Indian, seeing a beach, turned the canoe inshore, and whilst his companion was preparing breakfast, the white man walked downstream towards the ramparts of rocks through which the river ran. When he reached them he looked down at the water. It ran smooth and glassy and swift, whirling against the rocky sides a good foot higher than between the earthen banks upstream. He followed the , forgetting that he was tired, forgetting the preparing breakfast, a look of extreme anxiety upon his face. Three-quarters of an hour's walking brought him to the end of the gorge, and for a mile or two the country opened out once more, the river running wide between low-lying banks to disappear in the lee of a range of hills above which hung a veil of mist. He stood regarding the scene for a few minutes and then, the anxiety on his face more pronounced than ever, made his way back to the place where the Indian awaited him. The Indian had already eaten, and whilst he himself breakfasted he told him what he had seen. The native listened carefully, and in the end replied in his own language.
 
"Good! We go through the cliffs, in place of making the portage. It is the swifter way, and if the white Klootchman come this way, she has gone through these gates of the waters. We follow, but not very far, for again we come to the hills, and to a place where the earth is rent, and the waters fall down a wall that is higher than the highest spruce. If the Klootchman's canoe go there—it is the end."
 
Falls! So that was the meaning of that mist among the hills. There the river into a , and if Helen Yardely's canoe had been swept on in the current it was indeed the end. Ainley's anxiety mounted to positive fear. He pushed from him the fried deer-meat and bacon which the other had prepared for him, and rose suddenly to his feet.
 
"Let us be going!" he said sharply, and walked restlessly to and fro whilst his companion broke camp. A few minutes later they were afloat again, and after a little time there was no need to paddle. The current caught them and flung them towards the at express speed. In an amazingly short time they had passed through the gorge, and were watching the banks open out on either side of them.
 
There was no sign of life anywhere, no indication that any one had passed that way since time began. As they sped a and began to make itself heard. It increased as they neared the range of hills towards which they were making, and as the banks began to grow rocky, and the water ahead broken by , the Indian looked for a good place to land.
 
He found it on the lee side of a where an had a little bay in the steep bank, and turning the canoe inside it, they stepped . Making the canoe secure they climbed to the top of the bank and began to push their way down stream. The rapids, as Ainley , grew worse. Everywhere the rocks stood up like teeth tearing the water to tatters, and the rumble ahead grew more pronounced. still for a moment, they felt the earth trembling beneath their feet, and the white man's face paled with apprehension. A of spruce hid the view of the river as it skirted a big rock, and as the river evidently made a at this point, they struck a bee-line through the timber. The rumble, of which they had long been conscious, of the suddenest seemed to become a roar, and, as they came to an open place where they could see the water again, they understood the reason.
 
The river but a few feet below them, bordered by shelving terraces of rock, suddenly disappeared. Rolling glassily for perhaps fifty yards, with scarce a on its surface, the water seemed to gather itself together, and leap into a gorge, the bottom of which was ninety feet below. Ainley stood looking at the long for a full minute, a wild light in his eyes, then he looked long and at the gorge through which the river ran after its great leap. His face was white and grim, and his mouth was quivering painfully.
 
Then without a word he turned and began to hurry along the line of the gorge. The Indian strode after him.
 
"Where go to?" he asked.
 
"The end of the gorge," was the brief reply.
 
The Indian nodded, and then looked back. "If canoe can go over there it smash to small bits."
 
"Oh, I know it, don't I?" cried Ainley . "Hold your tongue, can't you?"
 
An hour's wild walking brought them to the end of the gorge, and looking down the rather steep face of the hill, to the widening river, the white man carefully surveyed the banks. After a time he found what he was looking for—a pile of heaped against a bluff, whose hard rock resisted the action of the water. It was about a quarter of a mile away and on the same bank of the river as himself. Still in silence he began to drop down the face of the hill, and sometimes climbing over moss-grown rocks, sometimes waist-high in the river itself, he made his way to the heap of debris. It was the drift-pile made by the river, which at this point cast out from its logs and trees and all manner of debris brought over the falls and down the gorge, a great heap piled in inextricable confusion as high as a tall fir tree, and as broad as a church.
 
, Gerald Ainley began to round its wide base; and the Indian also joined in the search, among the drift-logs and occasionally tumbling one aside. Then the Indian gave a sharp , and out of the pile dragged a piece of that was obviously part of the side and bow of a canoe. He shouted to Ainley, who hurried scramblingly over a heap of the logs, and who, after one look at that which the Indian had , stood there shaking like wind-stricken corn; his face white and ghastly, his eyes full of agony. The Indian put a brown finger on a symbol painted on the bows, with the letters H. B. C. beneath. Both of them recognized the piece of wreckage as belonging to the canoe in which Helen Yardely had left the camp, and the Indian, with a glance at the gorge which had the wreckage, gave to his belief.
 
"All gone."
 
Gerald Ainley made no reply. He had no doubt that what the Indian said was true, and the truth was terrible enough. Turning away he began anew to search the drift-pile, looking now for the body of a dead girl, though with but little hope of finding it. For an hour he searched in vain, then began to down river, searching the bank. A mile below the first drift-pile he came upon a second, caught by a sand-bar, that, thrusting itself out in the water, the smaller debris. This also he searched , with no result; and after wandering a little further down the river without finding anything, returned to where the Indian awaited him.
 
"We will go back," he said, and these were the only words he until they reached their canoe again.
 
The Indian cooked a meal, of which Ainley partook with but little care for what he was eating, his eyes on the ochre-coloured water as it swept by, his face the index of unfathomable thoughts. After the meal they began to track their canoe upstream, until they reached water where it would be possible to paddle, one of them towing with a line, and the other working hard with the paddle to keep the canoe's nose from the bank. A little way before they reached the limestone ramparts through which they had swept at such speed a few hours before, the Indian, who was at the towline, stopped and indicated that they must make a portage over the gorge, since the of the cliffs made it impossible to tow the canoe through. In this task, a very hard one, two journeys, one with the canoe and one with the stores, they were occupied the remainder of the day, and when they pitched camp again and had eaten the evening meal, the Indian fell asleep.
 
But there was no sleep for Gerald Ainley. He sat there staring at the water rushing by, reflecting the of the Northern night. And it was not crimson that he saw it, but ochre-coloured as he had seen it earlier in the day, hurrying towards the rapids below, and to that ninety-foot leap into the gorge. And all the time, in vision, he saw a canoe swept on the brown flood, a canoe in which a chestnut-haired girl, her grey eyes wide with fear; her hands helplessly clasped, as she stared ahead, whilst the canoe danced and leaped in the quickening waters hurrying towards the ramparts below, which for aught she knew might well be the gates of death.
 
Sometimes the vision changed, and he saw the canoe in the rapids below the ramparts, and waited in agony for it to strike one of the ugly teeth of rock. Again and again it seemed that it must, but always the current swept it clear, and it moved on at an increasing pace, swept in that quick mill-race immediately above the falls. On the very edge he saw it pause for a brief fraction of time and then the water flung it and the white-faced girl into the depths beneath, and he saw them falling, falling through the clouds of spray, the girl's dying cry ringing through the thunder of the waters. He cried out in sudden agony.
 
"My God! No!"
 
Then at the sound of his own cry, the vision left him for a time, and he saw the river as it was, in the light of the midnight sun. A sound behind him caused him to turn round. The Indian, by his cry of , had sat up and was staring at him in an odd way.
 
"It is all right, Joe," he said, and with a grunt the Indian lay down to sleep again.
 
Ainley could not remain where he was to become again the of terrible imaginations. Rising to his feet, he stumbled out of the camp, and began to walk restlessly along the bank of the river. He was body-tired, but his mind was active with an activity that was almost . Try as he would he could not shut out the visions which haunted him, and as fast as he dismissed one, a new one was up. Now, as already shown, it was the canoe with the girl dancing to destruction, now that final leap; then again it was that broken piece of flotsam by the drift-pile at the end of the gorge; and later, in some still reach far down the river, a dead girl, white-faced, but peaceful, like drowned Ophelia.
 
He walked far without knowing it, driven by the secret agonies within, and all the time conscious that he could not escape from them. Then that befell which put a term to these imaginings. As he walked he came suddenly on the ashes of a camp fire. For a moment he stared at it uncomprehendingly. Then his interest quickened, as the state of the ashes showed some one had camped at this place quite recently. He began to look about him carefully, walking down the shelving bank to the edge of the river. At that point there was a of soft clay, which took and preserved the impression of everything of weight which rested upon it; and instantly he perceived a number of footmarks about a spot where a canoe had been beached twice.
 
Stooping he examined the footmarks minutely. There was quite a of them, mostly made by a long and broad moccasined foot, which was certainly that of a man; but in the jumble he found the print of smaller feet, which must have been made by a youth or girl. A quick hope in his heart as he began to trace these prints among the others. He had little of the craft of the wilds, but one thing quickly arrested his attention—the smaller footprints all pointed one way and that was down the bank towards the water. Now why should that be? Had the person who had made those footprints not been in the canoe when the owner had landed to pitch camp? And if such were the case, and the of them was indeed a woman, what was she doing here, alone in the ?
 
Had Helen Yardely been saved by some fortunate chance, and wandering along the river bank, stumbled on the camp of some or trapper making his way to the wild North? His mind clutched at this new hope, eagerly. Hurriedly he climbed the sticky bank and began feverishly to search for any sign that could help him. Then suddenly the hope became a certainty, for in the rough grass he saw something gleam, and stooping to recover it, found that it was a small enamelled Swastiki brooch similar to one which he had seen three days before at Miss Yardely's throat.
 
As he saw this he gave a shout of joy, and a moment later was hurrying back along the bank to his own encampment. As he went, almost at a run, his mind was busy with the discovery he had made. There were other brooches in the world like this, thousands of them no doubt, but there were few if any at all in this wild Northland, and not for a single moment did he question that this was the one that Miss Yardely had worn. And if he were right, then the girl was safe, and no doubt was already on her way back to her uncle's camp in the care of whatever man had found her.
 
Excitedly he broke on the of his Indian companion, and after showing him the brooch, bade him accompany him to the place where he had found it, and there pointed to the footmarks on the river bank.
 
"Can you read the meaning of those signs?"
 
The Indian studied them as a white man would a , and presently he stood up, and spoke with the slow gravity of his race.
 
"The Klootchman she came from the river. The man he carry her from the water in his arms."
 
"How do you know that, Joe?"
 
The Indian pointed to certain footprints which were much more deeply marked than the others.
 
"The man he carry heavy weight when he make these, and the Klootchman she weigh, how much? One hundred and ten pounds, sure. He not carry that weight back to the canoe, because the Klootchman she walk." He pointed again, this time to the smaller footprints, and to Ainley, reading the signs through the Indian's eyes, the explanation amounted to a .
 
"Yes, yes, I understand," he cried, "but in that case where is she?"
 
The Indian looked up and down the river, then waved a hand upstream. "The man he take her back to camp."
 
"Then why did we not meet them as we came down?"
 
A puzzled expression came on the Indian's face. For a moment he stood considering the problem, then he shook his head gravely.
 
"I not know."
 
"We must get back to the camp at once, Joe. We must find out if Miss Yardely has returned. We know now that she is alive, and at all costs we must find her. We will start at once for there is no time to lose."
 
He turned on his heel and led the way back to the canoe, and half an hour later they were paddling upstream towards the of the rivers, the Indian grave and ; Ainley with a puzzled, anxious look upon his handsome face.