But he heard De Casson's voice, and with a splendid
effort threw himself and the lad towards it. The priest also fought
upwards to them and caught them as they came, having reserved his great
strength until now. Throwing his left arm over the lad he relieved
Iberville of his burden, but called to him to hold on. The blood was
flowing into Iberville's eyes and he could do nothing else. But now came
the fight between the priest and the mad waters. Once--twice--thrice
they went beneath, but neither Iberville nor himself let go, and to the
apprehensive cries of their friends there succeeded calls of delight, for
De Casson had seized the jutting bole and held on. It did not give, and
they were safe for a moment.
A quarter of a mile below there was smoother water, and soon the canoes
were ashore, and Perrot, Sainte-Helene, and others were running to the
rescue. They arrived just in time. Ropes were let down, and the lad was
drawn up insensible. Then came the priest, for Iberville, battered as he
was, would not stir until the abbe had gone up--a stout strain on the
rope. Fortunately there were clefts and fissures in the wall, which
could be used in the ascent. De Casson had consented to go first,
chiefly because he wished to gratify the still youthful pride of
Iberville, who thought the soldier should see the priest into safety.
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