Besides, that noise makes me deaf."
Jeanne shuddered.
"Let us hurry," she said. "I'm--I'm afraid of THAT!"
Philip carried the canoe down to the river, and Jeanne followed
with the bearskins. The current was soft and sluggish, with tiny
maelstroms gurgling up here and there, like air-bubbles in boiling
syrup. He only half launched the canoe, and Jeanne remained while
he went for another load. The dip, kept green by the water of a
spring, was a pistol-shot from the river. Philip looked back from
the crest and saw Jeanne leaning over the canoe. Then he descended
into the meadow, whistling. He had reached the packs when to his
ears there seemed to come a sound that rose faintly above the roar
of the water in the chasm. He straightened himself and listened.
"Philip! Philip!"
The cry came twice--his own name, piercing, agonizing, rising
above the thunder of the floods. He heard no more, but raced up
the slope of the dip. From the crest he stared down to where
Jeanne had been. She was gone. The canoe was gone. A terrible fear
swept upon him, and for an instant he turned faint. Jeanne's cry
came to him again.
"Philip! Philip!"
Like a madman he dashed up the rocky trail to the chasm, calling
to Jeanne, shrieking to her, telling her that he was coming.
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