THROUGH THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW
The dwarf seized her hand, and, stepping over the brink,
they began their perilous descent. They lay on their
sides, feet downwards, and at once the loose sand and
fine pebbles began to move with their bodies. Down the
long slope they slid at a terrific pace that fairly took
their breath away. To Dorothy it was as if she were
falling from an immense height. The earth rushed past
her, and for one horrible moment she feared she was losing
her senses. It was a nightmare in which she was tumbling
headlong from some dizzy cliff, knowing that she would
be dashed to pieces at its foot.
"Courage, my dear."
It was Pepin's voice that brought her to her senses.
She felt the grasp of his strong hand upon her arm. Soon
she became conscious that their rocket-like flight was
somewhat checked, and noted the reason. Pepin who lay
on his back, had got his long stick wedged under his
arms, and, with the weight of his body practically upon
it, made it serve as a drag on their progress. Dorothy
felt as if her clothes must be brushed from her body.
She hardly dared look down to see how much of the fearful
journey there was yet to accomplish. Suddenly the sand
and gravel became of a heavier nature. Their pace slackened;
Pepin threw all his weight on to the stick, and they
pulled up. Dorothy saw that they were now about half-way
down--they must have dropped about three hundred feet in
a matter of seconds. Then something that to Dorothy seemed
to presage the end of all things happened. There was a
roar as of thunder over their heads. Looking up as they
still lay prone they beheld a terrifying spectacle. A
huge rock was bounding down upon them from the heights
above. It gathered force as it came, rising high in the
air in a series of wild leaps. _Debris_ and dust marked
its path. It set other stones in motion, and the noise
was as if a 15-pounder and a Vicker's Maxim gun were
playing a duet. For the moment a species of panic seized
Dorothy, but Pepin retained his presence of mind.
"Bah!" he exclaimed. "It is that cut-throat and blockhead,
Jumping Frog, who has been throw down that stone! But
what need to worry! Either it will squeeze us like to
the jelly-fish or the flat-fish, or it will jump over
our heads and do no harm--"
He pressed her to earth with one strong hand as the great
rock struck the ground a few feet short of them and
bounded over their heads. A warm, sulphurous odour came
from the place of concussion. An avalanche of small
stones rattled all around them. It was a narrow escape
truly, and the very thought of it almost turned Dorothy
sick. She saw the rock ricochet down the steep slope and
plunge with a mighty splash into the blue waters far
below.
How they got to the bottom Dorothy was never able to
determine. She only knew that when she got there her
boots were torn to pieces, and any respectable dealer in
rags would hardly have demeaned himself by bidding for
her clothes. Pepin was a curious sight, for his garments
looked like so many tattered signals of distress.
The two found themselves in a great gloomy canyon with
frowning sides and a broad, leaden-hued river surging at
its foot.
But the canoe, where was it? Had it been sunk by the rock
from above? If so, they had absolutely no hope of escape.
But Pepin's sharp eyes saw it riding securely in a little
bay under a jutting rock. Dorothy and he hurried down to
it. There was a narrow strip of sand, and the water was
shallow just there. The painter was wound round a sharp
rock, and they pulled the canoe to them. Just at that
moment a shower of rocks and _debris_ passed within a
few feet of them and plunged into the water, throwing up
a snow-white geyser.
"Jump in, my dear," cried Pepin, "we will escape them
yet, and that fool of a Jumping Frog will swing at the
end of a long rope or die like a coyote with a bullet
through his stupid head."
Dorothy got in, and Pepin rolled in bodily after her.
He seized the paddle, seated himself near the bow, and
dipped his blade into the eddying flood. "Now then,
Mam'selle, have the big heart of courage and the good
God will help. One, two!"
The canoe shot out into the stream. Like a child's paper
boat or a withered leaf it was caught up and whirled
away. There was a look of exultation on the dwarfs face;
his dark eyes flashed with excitement.
"Courage, my dear!" he cried again. "Move not, and do
not be afraid. Think of the good father and the sweetheart
who will meet you at the Croisettes lower down. Think of
them, dear heart, the father and the lover!"
Dorothy did think, and breathed a prayer that God would
nerve the arm of Pepin and give them both faith and
courage.
But the river was in flood, and the current rushed like
a mill-race. Dorothy fairly held her breath as the canoe
rode over the surging waters. The river seemed to narrow,
and great black walls of rock wet with spray and streaked
with patches of orange and green closed in upon them.
They came to a bend where the water roared and boiled
angrily, its surface being broken with great blue
silver-crested furrows. Suddenly Pepin uttered a strange,
hoarse cry. There had been an immense landslide, and the
entire channel had been altered. Right in their path lay
a broad whirlpool. Pepin paddled for dear life, while
the perspiration stood out in beads upon his forehead.
His face was set and there was a strained look in his
eyes. Dorothy clasped her hands, praying aloud, but
uttering no word of fear.
"Courage, courage," Pepin cried. "The good Lord will not
forsake. Courage!"
The muscles stood out like knots on his great arms. His
body inclined forward and his paddle flashed and dipped
with lightning, unerring strokes.
The canoe leapt out of the water, and then shot out of
that swirling, awful ring into the headlong stream again.
"Houp-la, Hooray!" cried Pepin. "Thanks be to the good
God! Courage, _mon ami!_"
And then the words died on his lips, and Dorothy perceived
a sickly grey overspread his face as he stared ahead.
She looked and saw a great mass of rock right in the
centre of the stream, as if a portion of the cliff had
fallen into it, dividing the passage. Pepin, who had
somewhat relaxed his efforts, now began to ply his paddle
again with redoubled vigour. His hair stood on end, the
veins swelled on his forehead, and his body was hunched
forward in a grotesque fashion. Once he turned and,
looking swiftly over his shoulder, cried something to
Dorothy. But the thundering of the waters was now so
great that his voice was drowned. The canoe was heading
straight for the rock, as an arrow speeds from the bow.
Dorothy closed her eyes and prayed. There was a lurch,
the canoe heeled over until the water poured in, she
opened her eyes and clung to the sides for dear life,
and then it shot past the menacing death, just missing
it by a hand's breadth.
But what was the matter with the river? It had contracted
until it was not more than twenty yards in width. It
flowed between smooth slimy walls of rock, the vasty
heights of which shut out the light of coming day. There
was no roaring now, only the rapid, deep, tremulous flow
of the sea-green waters. Dorothy looked upwards, but
all she could see was the black, pitiless cliffs, and a
narrow ribbon of sky. Pepin had ceased to ply his paddle,
and was gazing fixedly down stream. A presentiment that
something was wrong took possession of Dorothy. When the
dwarf turned round, and she saw the look of pity for her
upon his face, she knew he had something ghastly to tell.
His expression was not that of fear; it was that of one
who, seeing death ahead, is not afraid for himself, but
is strangely apprehensive about breaking the news to
another. And all the time the thin ribbon of sky was
getting narrower.
The girl looked at the dwarf keenly.
"Pepin Quesnelle," she said, "you have been a good, dear
friend to me, and now you have lost your life in trying
to save mine--"
"Pardon, Mam'selle, my dear, what is it you know? You
say we go for to meet the death. How you know that, eh?
What?"
Despite the tragedy of the situation, and the great pity
for her that filled his heart, he would not have been
Pepin had he not posed as the _petit maitre_ in this the
hour of the shadow.
She pointed to the great black archway looming up ahead
under which their canoe must shoot in another minute. It
was the dread subterranean passage, which meant for them
the end of all things. It was a tragic ending to all her
hopes and dreams, the trials and the triumphs of her
young life. It was, indeed, bitter to think that just
when love, the crowning experience of womanhood, had come
to her, its sweetness should have been untasted. Even
the lover's kiss--that seal upon the compact of souls--had
been denied her. Her fate had been a hard one, but Dorothy
was no fair-weather Christian. Was it not a great triumph
that in the dark end she should have bowed to the higher
will, and been strong? And her love, if it had experienced
no earthly close, might it not live again in the mysterious
Hereafter? She thanked God for the comfort of the thought.
She had been face to face with death before, but now here
surely was the end. She would be brave and true to all
that was best and truest in her, and she felt that somehow
those who were left behind must know.
The dwarf faced her, and his hands were clasped as in
prayer. His face was transfigured. There was no fear
there--only a look of trust in a higher power, and of
compassion.
"Pepin," cried Dorothy, "you have been a good, dear friend
to me, and I want to thank you before--"
"Bah !" interrupted the dwarf. "What foolishness is it
you will talk about thanks! But, my dear, I will say this
to you now, although you are a woman, there is no one in
this wide world--save, of course, the good mother--that
I would more gladly have laid down my life to serve than
you! I am sure your Pasmore would forgive me if he heard
that Good-bye, my dear child, and if it is the Lord's
will that together we go to knock at the gates of the
great Beyond, then I will thank Heaven that I have been
sent in such good company. Now, let us thank the good
God that He has put the love of Him in our hearts."
And then the darkness swallowed them up.
Back from the land of dreams and shadows--back from the
Valley of the Shadow and the realms of unconsciousness.
Dorothy opened her eyes. At first she could see nothing.
Then there fell upon her view the shadowy form of a human
figure bending over her, and a slimy roof of rock that
seemed to rush past at racehorse speed. It seemed to grow
lighter. The canoe swayed; she heard the rush of water;
then there was darkness again.
It was the splash of cold water on her face from a little
wave that dashed over the side of the canoe that roused
her. She opened her eyes. In the bow she could see Pepin
kneeling; his hands were clasped before him; his deep
voice ran above the surge of the current, and she knew
that he was praying aloud.
The roof over her head seemed to recede. It grew higher.
Pepin turned and seized the paddle. He dipped it into
the water and headed the canoe into the centre of the
stream.
"Mam'selle, my dear," he cried, "the good God has heard
our prayer. He has guided us through. Have heart of
courage, and all will be well."
Dorothy raised herself on to her hands and knees. It was
as if she had been dead and had come to life again. The
stream opened out. Suddenly there came a break in the
roof.
"Courage, _mon ami!_" cried Pepin, and he was just in
time to turn them from a rock that threatened destruction.
Then all at once they shot out into the great isle-studded
bosom of the broad river, and the sweet sunshine of the
coming day.
Half-an-hour later, and the canoe was gliding past the
banks where the ash and the wolf-willow grew, and the
great cliffs were left behind. They knew that they were
safe, and in their hearts was thanksgiving. Suddenly
Pepin cried--
"Ah, Mam'selle, you Douglas female, look--don't you see
it? There it is--Croisettes, and look--look, there is
the good mother, and your father, and there your Pasmore,
your pudding-head, Pasmore! Look, they run. Do not you
see them?"
But Dorothy could not see, for her eyes were full of
tears--like Pepin's.
END
End of Project Gutenberg's The Rising of the Red Man, by John Mackie