It was not a great splash, but they knew it well.

Paul, at the tiller, fancied that he could see the faces of the savages bending over their paddles.

They were eager, he knew, for their prey, and either chance or instinct had brought them through the white pall in the right course.
The uncertainty, the fog, and the great mysterious river weighed upon Paul.

He wished, for a moment, that the vapors might lift, and then they could fight their enemies face to face.

He glanced at his own comrades and they had taken on an unearthly look.