A moon of exquisite whiteness silvering the world, making shadows on the water as though it were sunlight and the daytime, giving a spectral look to the endless array of poplar trees on the banks, glittering on the foam of the rapids.  The spangling stars made the arch of the sky like some gorgeous chancel in a cathedral as vast as life and time.  Like the day which was ended, in which the mountain-girl had found a taste of Eden, it seemed too sacred for mortal strife.  Now and again there came the note of a night-bird, the croak of a frog from the shore; but the serene stillness and beauty of the primeval North was over all.

For two hours after sunset it had all been silent and brooding, and then two figures appeared on the bank of the great river.  A canoe was softly and hastily pushed out from its hidden shelter under the overhanging bank, and was noiselessly paddled out to midstream, dropping down the current meanwhile.

It was Jenny Long and the man who must get to Bindon.  They had waited till nine o’clock, when the moon was high and full, to venture forth.  Then Dingley had dropped from her bedroom window, had joined her under the trees, and they had sped away, while the man’s hunters, who had come suddenly, and before Jenny could get him away into the woods, were carousing inside.  These had tracked their man back to Tom Sanger’s house, and at first they were incredulous that Jenny and her uncle had not seen him.  They had prepared to search the house, and one had laid his finger on the latch of her bedroom door; but she had flared out with such anger that, mindful of the supper she had already begun to prepare for them, they had desisted, and the whiskey-jug which the old man brought out distracted their attention.

One of their number, known as the Man from Clancey’s, had, however, been outside when Dingley had dropped from the window, and had seen him from a distance.  He had not given the alarm, but had followed, to make the capture by himself.  But Jenny had heard the stir of life behind them, and had made a sharp detour, so that they had reached the shore and were out in mid-stream before their tracker got to the river.  Then he called to them to return, but Jenny only bent a little lower and paddled on, guiding the canoe towards the safe channel through the first small rapids leading to the great Dog Nose Rapids.

A rifle-shot rang out, and a bullet “pinged” over the water and splintered the side of the canoe where Dingley sat.  He looked calmly back, and saw the rifle raised again, but did not stir, in spite of Jenny’s warning to lie down.

“He’ll not fire on you so long as he can draw a bead on me,” he said quietly.

Again a shot rang out, and the bullet sang past his head.

“If he hits me, you go straight on to Bindon,” he continued.  “Never mind about me.  Go to the Snowdrop Mine.  Get there by twelve o’clock, and warn them.  Don’t stop a second for me ­”

Suddenly three shots rang out in succession ­Tom Sanger’s house had emptied itself on the bank of the river ­and Dingley gave a sharp exclamation.

“They’ve hit me, but it’s the same arm as before,” he growled.  “They got no right to fire at me.  It’s not the law.  Don’t stop,” he added quickly, as he saw her half turn round.

Now there were loud voices on the shore.  Old Tom Sanger was threatening to shoot the first man that fired again, and he would have kept his word.

“Who you firin’ at?” he shouted.  “That’s my niece, Jinny Long, an’ you let that boat alone.  This ain’t the land o’ lynch law.  Dingley ain’t escaped from gaol.  You got no right to fire at him.”

“No one ever went down Dog Nose Rapids at night,” said the Man from Clancey’s, whose shot had got Dingley’s arm.  “There ain’t a chance of them doing it.  No one’s ever done it.”

The two were in the roaring rapids now, and the canoe was jumping through the foam like a racehorse.  The keen eyes on the bank watched the canoe till it was lost in the half-gloom below the first rapids, and then they went slowly back to Tom Sanger’s house.

“So there’ll be no wedding to-morrow,” said the Man from Clancey’s.

“Funerals, more likely,” drawled another.

“Jinny Long’s in that canoe, an’ she ginerally does what she wants to,” said Tom Sanger sagely.

“Well, we done our best, and now I hope they’ll get to Bindon,” said another.

Sanger passed the jug to him freely.  Then they sat down and talked of the people who had been drowned in Dog Nose Rapids and of the last wedding in the mountains.