It was very dark; the only marvel was, not that she did not recognise Toyner, but that she and he were not both engulfed in the black flood beneath them in the struggle which she made to take him in the canoe.
Twice that day Toyner had stirred and become conscious; but consciousness, except that of confused dreams, had again deserted him.
The lack of food, if it had preserved him from fever, had caused the utmost weakness of all his bodily powers; yet when the small amount of bread and rum which he could swallow gave him a little strength, he was roused, not to the extent of knowing who he was or where, but enough to move his muscles, although feebly, under direction.

After a long time she had him safely in the bottom of the canoe, his head lying upon her jacket which she had folded for a pillow.

At first, as she began to paddle the canoe forward, he groaned again and again, but by degrees the reaction of weakness after exertion made him lapse into his former state that seemed like sleep.
Ann had lost now all her fears of unknown and unseen dangers.

All that she feared was the loss of her way, or the upsetting of her boat.

The strength that she put into the strokes of her paddle was marvellous.