He went on, hour after hour. The river narrowed. The banks grew
higher and rockier, and the water, deep and silvery under the
moon, flowed in a somewhat swifter current. Henry gave a little
stronger sweep to the paddle, and the speed of the canoe was
maintained. He still kept within the shadow of the northern
bank.
He noticed after a while that fleecy vapor was floating before
the moon. The night seemed to be darkening, and a rising wind
came out of the southwest. The touch of the air on, his face
was damp. It was the token of rain, and he felt that it would
not be delayed long.
It was no part of his plan to be caught in a storm on the
Monongahela. Besides the discomfort, heavy rain and wind might
sink his frail canoe, and he looked for a refuge. The river was
widening again, and the banks sank down until they were but
little above the water. Presently he saw a place that he knew
would be suitable, a stretch of thick bushes and weeds growing
into the very edge of the water, and extending a hundred yards or
more along the shore.
He pushed his canoe far into the undergrowth, and then stopped it
in shelter so close that, keen as his own eyes were, he could
scarcely see the main stream of the river.
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