The two were silent as the fish themselves, sustained by imperceptible strokes, and Robert saw the fleet of Tandakora pass in a ghostly line.  They looked unreal, a shadow following shadows, the huge figure of the Ojibway chief in the first boat a shadow itself.  Robert’s blood chilled, and it was not from the cold of the water.  He was in a mystic and unreal world, but a world in which danger pressed in on every side.  He felt like one living back in a primeval time.  The swish of the paddles was doubled and tripled by his imagination, and the canoes seemed to be almost on him.

The questing eyes of Tandakora and his warriors swept the waters as far as the night, surcharged with mists and vapors, would allow, but they did not see the two human figures, so near them and almost submerged in the lake.  The sound of the swishing paddles moved southward, and the line of ghostly canoes melted again, one by one, into the darkness.

“They’re gone, Tayoga,” whispered Robert in a tone of immense relief.

“So they are, Dagaeoga, and they will seek us long elsewhere.  Are you yet weary?”

“I might be at another time, but with my life at stake I can’t afford to grow tired.  Let us follow the wind once more.”

They swam anew with powerful strokes, despite the long time they had been in the water, and no sailors, dying of thirst, ever scanned the sea more eagerly for a sail than they searched through the heavy dusk for their lost canoe.  The wind continued to rise, and the waves with it.  Foam was often dashed over their heads, the water grew cold to their bodies, now and then they floated on their backs to rest themselves and thus the singular chase, with the wind their only guide, was maintained.

Robert was the first to see a dim shape, but he would not say anything until it grew in substance and solidity.  Nevertheless hope flooded his heart, and then he said: 

“The wind has guided us aright, Tayoga.  Unless some evil spirit has taught my eyes to lie to me that is our canoe straight ahead.”

“It has all the appearance of a canoe, Dagaeoga, and since the only canoe on this part of the lake is our canoe, then our canoe it is.”

“And none too soon.  I’m not yet worn out, but the cold of the water is entering my bones.  I can see very clearly now that it’s the canoe, our canoe.  It stands up like a ship, the strongest canoe, the finest canoe, the friendliest canoe that ever floated on a lake or anywhere else.  I can hear it saying to us:  ’I have been waiting for you.  Why didn’t you come sooner?’”

“Truly when Dagaeoga is an old, old man, nearly a hundred, and the angel of death comes for him, he will rise up in his bed and with the rounded words pouring from his lips he will say to the angel:  ’Let me make a speech only an hour long and then I will go with you without trouble, else I stay here and refuse to die.’”

“I’m using words to express my gratitude, Tayoga.  Look, the canoe is moving slowly toward the center of the lake, but it stays back as much as the wind will let it and keeps beckoning to us.  A few more long, swift strokes, Tayoga, and we’re beside it.”