“But he run!” exclaimed the Metis in Thirlwell’s canoe.  “Lak’ caribou, vent’ a terre.”

“Pren’ garde!” said Thirlwell warningly, and thrust hard with his paddle as the canoe drove past a foam-lapped rock.

“It is the chase he make,” the half-breed resumed, and another figure came out of the gloom, a short distance in front of the one they had seen.

The man moved feebly, stumbling now and then, but it was obvious that he meant to keep ahead of his pursuer.  As he crossed a belt of moonlight one of the Metis recognized him, for he cried:  “Steve le sauage!  Regardez moi l’ivrogne!”

Agatha thought the man was drunk.  This would account for his awkwardness, but as he turned and staggered down the bank she saw him plainer and he looked ill.  He dragged himself along with an effort, his gait was uneven, as if one leg was weak, but he went on towards the water’s edge.  A moment later he pushed off a canoe, made a few strokes with the paddle, and then let her swing out with an eddy until she was caught by the mid-stream rush.  After this he crouched in the stern and the craft began to drift down the rapid.  The other man stopped and threw out his arms, as if he meant to protest that he could do nothing more.

“Father Lucien!” said Thirlwell.  “Black Steve’s risking a capsize.”

They sped past the man upon the bank and Agatha watched the crouching figure in the canoe.  The craft was a short distance in front of, but outside, theirs, and she could see the danger of her being smashed or swamped.  It was plain that the only safe way down was through the slack along the bank, but the man made no effort to reach this smoother belt.  He let the paddle trail in the water while the canoe rocked among the angry waves.  His rashness fascinated Agatha and she could not look away, although she knew she might see him drown.

“Can’t you do something?” she asked Thirlwell.

“No,” he said sternly.  “We’re loaded and would be swamped.  Steve’s drunk and must take his chance.”

A few moments later the canoe in front plunged down a furious rush of the current, lurched up on a white wave, rolled over, and vanished.  Agatha trembled, and felt cold, and the Metis shouted:  “V’la!  C’en est fait—­”

A black object that looked like a head rose from the racing foam and Agatha turned to Thirlwell imperiously—­

“Go and help him.”

He hesitated and she knew it was on her account.  Then he lifted his paddle.

“Au secour!”