Another turn in the stream and a sound like the roar of an approaching storm as it is borne on a rising wind, broke the silence.  It was the roar of rapids or falls.  The stream narrowed; the water ran swifter; rocky ledges rose on both sides, gradually getting higher and higher.  Crow rose to his feet and looked ahead.  Then he dropped to his knees and turned the head of the canoe into the middle of the stream.  The roar became deafening.  Looking forward Isaac saw that they were entering a dark gorge.  In another moment the canoe pitched over a fall and shot between two high, rocky bluffs.  These walls ran up almost perpendicularly two hundred feet; the space between was scarcely twenty feet wide, and the water fairly screamed as it rushed madly through its narrow passage.  In the center it was like a glancing sheet of glass, weird and dark, and was bordered on the sides by white, seething foam-capped waves which tore and dashed and leaped at their stony confines.

Though the danger was great, though Death lurked in those jagged stones and in those black waits Isaac felt no fear, he knew the strength of that arm, now rigid and again moving with lightning swiftness; he knew the power of the eye which guided them.

Once more out under the starry sky; rifts, shallows, narrows, and lake-like basins were passed swiftly.  At length as the sky was becoming gray in the east, they passed into the shadow of what was called the Standing Stone.  This was a peculiarly shaped stone-faced bluff, standing high over the river, and taking its name from Tarhe, or Standing Stone, chief of all the Hurons.

At the first sight of that well known landmark, which stood by the Wyandot village, there mingled with Isaac’s despondency and resentment some other feeling that was akin to pleasure; with a quickening of the pulse came a confusion of expectancy and bitter memories as he thought of the dark eyed maiden from whom he had fled a year ago.

“Co-wee-Co-woe,” called out one of the Indians in the bow of the canoe.  The signal was heard, for immediately an answering shout came from the shore.

When a few moments later the canoe grated softly on a pebbly beach.  Isaac saw, indistinctly in the morning mist, the faint outlines of tepees and wigwams, and he knew he was once more in the encampment of the Wyandots.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Late in the afternoon of that day Isaac was awakened from his heavy slumber and told that the chief had summoned him.  He got up from the buffalo robes upon which he had flung himself that morning, stretched his aching limbs, and walked to the door of the lodge.

The view before him was so familiar that it seemed as if he had suddenly come home after being absent a long time.  The last rays of the setting sun shone ruddy and bright over the top of the Standing Stone; they touched the scores of lodges and wigwams which dotted the little valley; they crimsoned the swift, narrow river, rushing noisily over its rocky bed.  The banks of the stream were lined with rows of canoes; here and there a bridge made of a single tree spanned the stream.  From the camp fires long, thin columns of blue smoke curled lazily upward; giant maple trees, in them garb of purple and gold, rose high above the wigwams, adding a further beauty to this peaceful scene.