Radisson turned to save young Gillam, the
unguided canoe had darted between two rolling seas. Walls of ice rose
on either side. A white whirl--a mighty rush--a tumult of roaring
waters--the ice walls pitched down--the canoe was caught--tossed
up--nipped--crushed like a card-box--and we four flung on the drenching
ice-pans to a roll of the seas like to sweep us under, with a footing
slippery as glass.
"Keep hold of Gillam! Lock hands!" came a clarion voice through the
storm. "Don't fear, men! There is no danger! The gale will drive us
ashore! Don't fear! Hold tight! Hold tight! There's no danger if
you have no fear!"
The ice heaved and flung to the roll of the drift.
"Hold fast and your wet sleeves will freeze you to the ice! Steady!"
he called, as the thing fell and rose again.
Then, with the hiss of the world serpent that pursues man to his doom,
we were scudding before a mountain swell. There was the splintering
report of a cannon-shot. The ice split. We clung the closer. The
rush of waves swept under us, around us, above us. There came a crash.
The thing gave from below. The powers of darkness seemed to close over
us, the jaws of the world serpent shut upon their prey, the spirit of
evil shrieked its triumph.
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