Then he put down his pack and went close to the edge of
the precipice.
Sixty feet below him was the Big Thunder, a chaos of lashing foam,
of slippery, black-capped rocks bobbing and grimacing amid the
rushing torrents like monsters playing at hide-and-seek. Now one
rose high, as though thrust up out of chaos by giant hands; then
it sank back, and milk-white foam swirled softly over the place
where it had been. There seemed to be life in the chaos--a grim,
terrible life whose voice was a thunder that never died. For a few
moments Philip stood fascinated by the scene below him. Then he
felt a touch upon his arm. It was Jeanne. She stood beside him
quivering, dead-white, Almost daring to take the final step.
Philip caught her hands firmly in his own, and Jeanne looked over.
Then she darted back and hovered, shuddering, near the wall.
The portage was a short one, scarce two hundred yards in length,
and at the upper end was a small green meadow in which river
voyagers camped. It still lacked two hours of dusk when Philip
carried over the last of the luggage.
"We will not camp here," he said to Jeanne pointing to the remains
of numerous fires and remembering Pierre's exhortation. "It is too
public, as you might say.
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