When he saw and fully realized his danger, his face grew deathly pale, and for an instant the light paddle in his hand felt as heavy as lead. But it was only for an instant. His power of action returned almost as quickly as it had deserted him, and, jumping to his feet, he fought hard for his life.
For a few seconds it seemed as if his puny arm could combat successfully with the roaring, foaming waters which leaped so wildly around him; but just at the moment when the canoe appeared to be perfectly motionless, and it seemed as if a feather’s weight might turn it either way—toward the falls, where it would be comparatively safe, or toward the cavern where its destruction was certain—there was a loud snap, and Mark found himself standing with a broken paddle in his hand, and saw the bow of the canoe swinging rapidly toward the waves which filled the mouth of Dead Man’s Elbow.
If there was any thing for which Mark was noted, besides his skill as a wrestler, it was the coolness and deliberation with which he acted in times of danger.
In this, he was a good deal like Sandy, who could scarcely be induced to move one step faster than his ordinary gait even under the most exciting circumstances.
Mark often grew pale in trying situations, and sometimes seemed utterly powerless to lift hand or foot, but when the decisive moment came, and action could be no longer delayed, he moved with a promptness and celerity that was astonishing.
On this occasion it did not seem that there was the smallest chance of escape. The Swamp Dragoons and the man in the tree thought so, and looked down at him with blanched cheeks.
Mark thought so, and stood erect in his boat, gazing in a stupid, benumbed sort of way into the dark opening where more than one strong man had given up his life, and toward which he was being hurried with lightning speed. But all this time he knew what he was about, and, when the canoe was on the very point of taking the fatal plunge, he sprang into the air with the agility of a squirrel.
The instant he touched the water he gave one swift stroke and reached a place of refuge—a huge sawyer, one end of which was imbedded in the mud at the bottom of the bayou, and the other projecting two or three feet above the surface of the water.