Faster and faster he went, but deeper and
deeper he dug his shoes into the snow, until he lay back almost
flat against its surface. This checked his speed somewhat, but
it was still very great, and, preserving his self-control
perfectly, he prayed aloud to kindly Providence to save him from
some great boulder or abrupt drop.
The snow from his runners flew in a continuous shower behind him
as he descended. Yet he drew himself compactly together, and
held his rifle parallel with his body. Once or twice, as he went
over a little ridge, he shot clear of the snow, but he held his
body rigid, and the snow beyond saved him from a severe bruise.
Then his speed was increased again, and all the time the white
surface of the lake below, seen dimly through the night and his
flight, seemed miles away.
He might never reach that surface alive, but of one thing lie was
sure. None of the Iroquois or Tories had dared to follow.
Braxton Wyatt could have no triumph over him. He was alone in
his great flight. Once a projection caused him to turn a little
to one side. He was in momentary danger of turning entirely, and
then of rolling head over heels like a huge snowball, but with a
mighty effort he righted himself, and continued the descent on
the runners, with the heels plowing into the ice and the snow.
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