i44            THE TRAIL OF '98
with a baffled roar rises high in the air in a raging hell oŁ spume and tempest. For a moment the chasm is a battleground of the elements, a fierce, titanic struggle. Then the river, wrenching free, falls into the basin below.
"Lie down, Berna, and hold on to me! " We both dropped down in the bottom of the scow, and she clasped me so tightly I marvelled at the strength of her.    I felt her wet cheek pressed to mine, her lips clinging to my lips.
" Now, dear, just a moment and it will all be
over."
Once again the angry thunder of the waters. The scow took them nose on, riding gallantly. Again we were tossed like a feather in a whirlwind, pitchforked from wrath to wrath. Once more, swinging, swerving, straining, we pelted on. On pinnacles of terror our hearts poised nakedly. The waters danced a fiery saraband; each wave was a demon lashing at us as we passed; or again they were like fear-maddened horses with whipping manes of flame. We clutched each other convulsively. Would it never, never end  .   .   . then  .   .   .  then .   .  .
It seemed the last had come. Up, up we went. We seemed to hover uncertainly, tilted, hair-poised over a yawning gulf. Were we going to upset ? Mental agony screamed in me. But, no! We righted. Dizzily we dipped over; steeply we plunged down. Oh! it was terrible! We were in a hornets' nest of angry waters and they were stinging us to death; we were in a hollow cavern roofed over with slabs