The murmur was steady now, without the variations
of a wind. It was the distant roaring of the rocks and rushing
floods of Big Thunder Rapids. It grew steadily from a murmur to a
moan, from a moan to rumbling thunder. The current became so swift
that Philip was compelled to use all his strength to force the
canoe ahead. A few moments later he turned into shore.
From where they landed, a worn trail led up to one of the
precipitous walls of rock and shut in the Big Thunder Rapids.
Everything about them was rock. The trail was over rock, worn
smooth by the countless feet of centuries--clawed feet, naked
feet, moccasined feet, the feet of white men. It was the Great
Portage, for animal as well as man. Philip went up with the pack,
and Jeanne followed behind him. The thunder increased. It roared
in their ears until they could no longer hear their own voices.
Directly above the rapids the trail was narrow, scarcely eight
feet in width, shut in on the land side by a mountain wall, on the
other by the precipice. Philip looked behind, and saw Jeanne
hugging close to the wall. Her face was white, her eyes shone with
terror and awe. He spoke to her, but she saw only the movement of
his lips.
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