Through a break in the trees he caught the green sweep of marsh rice
and his heart beat excitedly with hope. Where there was rice there were
wild-fowl, and surely where there were wild-fowl, there would be a punt
or a canoe! In his eagerness he ran, and where the path ended, the flags
and rice beaten into the mud and water, he stopped with an exultant cry.
At his feet was a canoe. It was wet, as though just drawn out of the
water, and a freshly used paddle was lying across the bow. Pausing but
to take a quick and cautious glance about him he shoved the frail craft
into the lake and with a few quiet strokes buried himself in the rice
grass. When he emerged from it he was half a mile from the shore.
For a long time he sat motionless, looking out over the shimmering sea.
Far to the south and west he could make out the dim outline of Beaver
Island, while over the trail he had come, mile upon mile, lay the
glistening dunes. Somewhere between the white desert sand and that
distant coast of the Mormon kingdom Marion was making her way back to
bondage. Nathaniel had given up all hope of overtaking her now. Long
before he could intercept her she would have reached the island. When he
started again he paddled slowly, and laid out for himself the plan that
he was to follow. There must be no mistake this time, no error in
judgment, no rashness in his daring. He would lie in hiding until dusk,
and then under cover of darkness he would hunt down Strang and kill him.
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