And he, James Kent, would be DEAD! He uncovered his eyes, and there was a wan smile on his lips as he looked forth once more.

There were sixteen scows in the brigade, and the biggest, he knew, was captained by Pierre Rossand.

He could fancy Pierre's big red throat swelling in mighty song, for Pierre's wife was waiting for him a thousand miles away.

The scows were caught steadily now in the grip of the river, and it seemed to Kent, as he watched them go, that they were the last fugitives fleeing from the encroaching monsters of steel.

Unconscious of the act, he reached out his arms, and his soul cried out its farewell, even though his lips were silent.
He was glad when they were gone and when the voices of the chanting oarsmen were lost in the distance.