They watched as one would watch an enemy a hundred times stronger than one's self.

The white man's skiff was near the derelict canoe; the bridge was near also.

Carillon now lined the bank of the river with its people.

They ran upon the bridge, but not so fast as to reach the place where, in the nick of time, Ingolby got possession of the rolling canoe; where Fleda Druse lay waiting like a princess to be waked by the kiss of destiny.
Only five hundred yards below the bridge was the second cataract, and she would never have waked if she had been carried into it.
To Ingolby she was as beautiful as a human being could be as she lay with white face upturned, the paddle still in her hand.
"Drowning isn't good enough for her," he said, as he fastened her canoe to his skiff.
"It's been a full day's work," he added; and even in this human crisis he thought of the fish he had caught, of "the big trouble," he had been thinking out as Osterhaut had said, as well as of the girl that he was saving.
"I always have luck when I go fishing," he added presently.

"I can take her back to Lebanon," he continued with a quickening look.