The feeling, however, though it refused to yield its meaning entirely to analysis, did not at the time trouble me by passing into menace.  Yet it never left me quite, even during the very practical business of putting up the tent in a hurricane of wind and building a fire for the stew-pot.  It remained, just enough to bother and perplex, and to rob a most delightful camping-ground of a good portion of its charm.  To my companion, however, I said nothing, for he was a man I considered devoid of imagination.  In the first place, I could never have explained to him what I meant, and in the second, he would have laughed stupidly at me if I had.

There was a slight depression in the center of the island, and here we pitched the tent.  The surrounding willows broke the wind a bit.

“A poor camp,” observed the imperturbable Swede when at last the tent stood upright; “no stones and precious little firewood.  I’m for moving on early to-morrow—­eh?  This sand won’t hold anything.”

But the experience of a collapsing tent at midnight had taught us many devices, and we made the cosy gipsy house as safe as possible, and then set about collecting a store of wood to last till bedtime.  Willow bushes drop no branches, and driftwood was our only source of supply.  We hunted the shores pretty thoroughly.  Everywhere the banks were crumbling as the rising flood tore at them and carried away great portions with a splash and a gurgle.

“The island’s much smaller than when we landed,” said the accurate Swede.  “It won’t last long at this rate.  We’d better drag the canoe close to the tent, and be ready to start at a moment’s notice. I shall sleep in my clothes.”

He was a little distance off, climbing along the bank, and I heard his rather jolly laugh as he spoke.

“By Jove!” I heard him call, a moment later, and turned to see what had caused his exclamation; but for the moment he was hidden by the willows, and I could not find him.

“What in the world’s this?” I heard him cry again, and this time his voice had become serious.

I ran up quickly and joined him on the bank.  He was looking over the river, pointing at something in the water.

“Good Heavens, it’s a man’s body!” he cried excitedly.  “Look!”

A black thing, turning over and over in the foaming waves, swept rapidly past.  It kept disappearing and coming up to the surface again.  It was about twenty feet from the shore, and just as it was opposite to where we stood it lurched round and looked straight at us.  We saw its eyes reflecting the sunset, and gleaming an odd yellow as the body turned over.  Then it gave a swift, gulping plunge, and dived out of sight in a flash.

“An otter, by gad!” we exclaimed in the same breath, laughing.

It was an otter, alive, and out on the hunt; yet it had looked exactly like the body of a drowned man turning helplessly in the current.  Far below it came to the surface once again, and we saw its black skin, wet and shining in the sunlight.