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doomed to be overtaken by the terrible fate that he had been flying from through
all these hideous days and nights? He shivered as might one upon whose brow
death has already laid his clammy finger.
Yet he did not cease to paddle frantically toward the steamer, and at last, after
what seemed an eternity, the bow of the dugout bumped against the timbers of
the Kincaid. Over the ship's side hung a monkey-ladder, but as the Russian
grasped it to ascend to the deck he heard a warning challenge from above, and,
looking up, gazed into the cold, relentless muzzle of a rifle.
After Jane Clayton, with rifle levelled at the breast of Rokoff, had succeeded in
holding him off until the dugout in which she had taken refuge had drifted out
upon the bosom of the Ugambi beyond the man's reach, she had lost no time in
paddling to the swiftest sweep of the channel, nor did she for long days and weary
nights cease to hold her craft to the most rapidly moving part of the river, except
when during the hottest hours of the day she had been wont to drift as the
current would take her, lying prone in the bottom of the canoe, her face sheltered
from the sun with a great palm leaf.
Thus only did she gain rest upon the voyage; at other times she continually
sought to augment the movement of the craft by wielding the heavy paddle.
Rokoff, on the other hand, had used little or no intelligence in his flight along the
Ugambi, so that more often than not his craft had drifted in the slow-going
eddies, for he habitually hugged the bank farthest from that along which the
hideous horde pursued and menaced him.
Thus it was that, though he had put out upon the river but a short time
subsequent to the girl, yet she had reached the bay fully two hours ahead of him.
When she had first seen the anchored ship upon the quiet water, Jane Clayton's
heart had beat fast with hope and thanksgiving, but as she drew closer to the
craft and saw that it was the Kincaid, her pleasure gave place to the gravest
misgivings.
It was too late, however, to turn back, for the current that carried her toward the
ship was much too strong for her muscles. She could not have forced the heavy
dugout up-stream against it, and all that was left her was to attempt either to
make the shore without being seen by those upon the deck of the Kincaid, or to
throw herself upon their mercy--otherwise she must be swept out to sea.
She knew that the shore held little hope of life for her, as she had no knowledge
of the location of the friendly Mosula village to which Anderssen had taken her
through the darkness of the night of their escape from the Kincaid.
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