Gray felt that the girl was too heart-broken to talk. He listened to
the rhythmical chorus of that witches' cauldron in the heart of the
defile, and watched the gray light slowly etching a path through the
trees, until it touched the fast-running water with a shimmer of silver.
Neither of them knew how long they remained there; at last, a straining
and creaking of the boat warned them that the water level was rising
and the ropes needed readjusting. It was now possible to see that
Elsie had made fast to a fallen tree; its branches were locked among
the gnarled roots of the lowermost growth above high-water mark.
Already there was a distinct lessening in the pace of the current, and
Gray fancied that the distant rumble was softer. It would not be many
minutes before the neighboring rocks were covered; high tide, he knew,
was at 3.15 A.M. He forebore to look at his watch, lest the girl
should note his action. That would imply the utter abandonment of hope.
It might be that his mind was too taken up with the weird influences of
the hour, or that Elsie's senses were strung to a superhuman pitch.
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