steep trail like some great, misshapen turtle. He laid it carefully
in the whispering current, then stripped himself with feverish
haste, for the driving call of a hot pursuit was on him, and
although it was the cold, raw hours of late night, he whipped off
his garments until he was bare to the middle. He seized his paddle,
stepped in, then knelt amidships and pushed away. The birch-bark
answered him like a living thing, leaping and dancing beneath the
strokes which sprung the spruce blade and boiled the water to a
foam, while rippling, rising ridges stood out upon his back and arms
as they rose and fell, stretched and bent and straightened.

A half-luminous, opaque glow was over the waters, but the banks
quickly dropped away, until there was nothing to guide him but the
suck of the current and the sight of the dim-set stars. His haste
now became something crying that lashed him fiercely, for he seemed
to be standing still, and so began to mutter at the crawling stream
and to complain of his thews, which did not drive him fast enough,
only the sound he made was more like the whine of a hound in leash
or a wolf that runs with hot nostrils close to the earth.

Runnion drove his Peterborough towards the shore with powerful
strokes, and ran its nose up on the gravel, rose, stretched himself,
and dragged it farther out, then looked down at Necia.

"Well, what is it, yes or no? Do you want me for a husband or for a
master?" She cowered in the stern, a pale, fearful creature, finally
murmuring:

"You--you must give me time."