Once more amid surroundings with the like of which Henry Ware had been so familiar, the soul of his great ancestor seemed to have descended upon him.  Most young officers, no matter how brave or how skilled in war, would have been awed and alarmed.  He had no comrades at his elbow.  There was no light, no friendly sound to encourage him, he was as truly alone, so far as his present situation was concerned, as any pioneer had ever been in the heart of the wilderness.  But for him there was pleasure at that moment in being alone.  He did not quiver when the thunder rolled and crashed above his head, and the lightning blazed in one Titanic sword slash after another across the surface of the river.  Rather, the wilderness and majesty of the scene appealed to him.  Leaning well back in his boat with his blankets closely wrapped about him, he watched it, and his soul rose with the storm.

Harry knew from its sudden violence that the rain would soon pass, and if the waves abated a little he would certainly take his boat into the river and try his fortunes again.  Yet a precious hour was lost, and nothing could replace it.  The thunder ceased by and by and there was only dim lightning on the far horizon.  The waves began to abate, and, taking off his blankets, he pushed his boat once more into the stream.

It rocked prodigiously and shipped water, but by strenuous effort he kept it afloat, and as the wind sank still further he decided that he would seek the northern shore and disembark as soon as possible.  It would be easier to steal through the thickets than to navigate what amounted to a wild sea.  But the banks were yet too high and steep for a landing, and he continued to row, keeping now near the middle of the stream.

Wind and rain were dying fast, and he heard a sound behind uncommonly like the distant swish of oars.  It sent an unpleasant thrill through him, because he wished to be alone on the river at that particular time, but his eyes, tracing a course through all the dusk and gloom, rested upon another boat, about two hundred yards away, containing a single occupant.

A farmer or a riverman, Harry thought, but to his great astonishment the man suddenly raised himself up a little and shouted to him in a tremendous voice to halt.  Harry had not the least idea of stopping for anybody.  He bent to his oars and rowed swiftly on.  Again came that shout to halt, and it seemed more insolent to him than before.  He put a few more ounces of strength into his arms and shoulders and increased his speed.

The pursuer, suddenly drawing in his oars, raised a rifle from the bottom of his boat, and fired point blank at the fugitive.  The bullet whistled so near Harry that he felt his ear burn, and at first thought he was hit.  He would have been glad to fire back, but his pistols could not carry like his enemy’s rifle, and there was nothing to do but flee.  Once again he sought to draw a few more ounces of energy from his body.  But the man behind him was a much greater oarsman than he and gained rapidly.  The stranger, shouting another command to halt, to which no attention was paid, fired a second time, and the bullet went through the side of Harry’s boat, barely scraping his knee as it passed.