"Stay here," he said, "I go; I am the stronger."
But Iberville, as cries of warning and appeal rang out around him, the
drowning lad had not cried out at all,--sprang into the water. Not
alone. The abbe looked around him, made the sacred gesture, and then
sprang also into an eddy a distance below, and at an angle made his way
up towards the two. Priest though he was, he was also an expert river-
man, and his vast strength served him royally. He saw Iberville tossed
here and there, but with impossible strength and good fortune reach the
lad. The two grasped each other and then struck out for the high shore.
De Casson seemed to know what would happen. He altered his course, and,
making for the shore also at a point below, reached it. He saw with a
kind of despair that it was steep and had no trees; yet his keen eyes
also saw, not far below, the dwarfed bole of a tree jutting out from the
rock. There lay the chance. Below this was a great turmoil of rapids.
A prayer mechanically passed the priest's lips, though his thoughts were
those of a warrior then. He almost enjoyed the danger for himself: his
fear was for Iberville and for the motherless boy.
He had guessed and hoped aright. Iberville, supporting the now senseless
boy, swung down the mad torrent, his eyes blinded with blood so that he
could not see.
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