Above the tumult ’Poleon was urging his crew to greater efforts.  “Pull hard!” he shouted.  “Hi!  Hi!  Hi!” He swayed in unison to their straining bodies.  “Mak’ dose oar crack,” he yelled.  “By Gar, dat’s goin’ some!”

The fellow’s teeth were gleaming, his face was alight with an exultant recklessness, he cast defiance at the approaching terrors.  He was alert, watchful; under his hands the stout ash steering-oar bent like a bow; he flung his whole strength into the battle with the waters.  Soon the roar increased until it drowned his shouts and forced him to pantomime his orders.  The boat was galloping through a wild smother of ice-cold spray and the reverberating cliffs were streaming past like the unrolling scenery on a painted canvas panorama.

It was a hellish place; it echoed to a demoniac din and it was a tremendous sensation to brave it, for the boat did not glide nor slip down the descent; it went in a succession of jarring leaps; it lurched and twisted; it rolled and plunged as if in a demented effort to unseat its passengers and scatter its cargo.  To the occupants it seemed as if its joints were opening, as if the boards themselves were being wrenched loose from the ribs to which they were nailed.  The men were drenched, of course, for they traveled in a cloud of spume; their feet were ankle-deep in cold water, and every new deluge caused them to gasp.

How long it lasted Pierce Phillips never knew; the experience was too terrific to be long lived.  It was a nightmare, a hideous phantasmagoria of frightful sensations, a dissolving stereopticon of bleak, scudding walls, of hydrophobic boulders frothing madly as the flood crashed over them, of treacherous whirlpools, and of pursuing breakers that reached forth licking tongues of destruction.  Then the river opened, the cliffs fell away, and the torrent spewed itself out into an expanse of whirlpools—­a lake of gyrating funnels that warred with one another and threatened to twist the keel from under the boat.

’Poleon swung close in to the right bank, where an eddy raced up against the flood; some one flung a rope from the shore and drew the boat in.

“Wal!  I never had no better crew,” cried the pilot.  “Wat you t’ink of ’im, eh?” He smiled down at the white-lipped oarsmen, who leaned forward, panting and dripping.

“Is—­that all of it?” Lucky Broad inquired, weakly.

“Mais non!  Look!  Dere’s Wite ’Orse.”

Doret indicated a wall of foam and spray farther down the river.  Directly across the expanse of whirlpools stood a village named after the rapids.  “You get plenty more bimeby.”

“You’re wrong.  I got plenty right now,” Broad declared.

“I’m glad the Countess didn’t come,” said Phillips.

When the men had wrung out their clothes and put on their boots they set out along the back trail over the bluffs.