The rattle of a scow-chain came up to him from the river as though it were only a hundred yards away.

He knew that it was one of Mooie's dogs he heard howling over near the sawmill.

The owls, flitting past his window, seemed to click their beaks more loudly than last night.

A dozen times he fancied he could hear the rippling voice of the river that very soon was to carry him on toward freedom.
The river! Every dream and aspiration found its voice for him in that river now.

Down it Marette Radisson had gone.