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Rh tipped their arrows in hunting for all game, which never failed to die if wounded with it.

Having had a return of his fever, and being aware that the further he advanced into these lonely regions the less would be his chance of regaining health, Mr. Waterton finally gave up all idea of proceeding, and went slowly back towards Demarara by nearly the same route by which he had come. As before, an Indian steered the canoe; and the traveller has given a graphic description of this part of his journey. On descending the falls in the Essequibo, it was resolved to push through them, the downward stream being in the canoe's favour. At a little distance from the place, a large tree had fallen into the river, and in the meantime the canoe was lashed to one of its branches. The roaring of the water was dreadful; it foamed and dashed over the rocks with a tremendous spray, like breakers on a lee-shore, threatening destruction to whatever approached it. The channel was barely twelve feet wide, and the torrent in rushing down formed transverse furrows, which showed how near the rocks were to the surface. Nothing could surpass the skill of the Indian who steered the canoe. He looked steadfastly at it, then at the rocks, then cast an eye on the channel, and then looked at the canoe again. It was in vain to speak. The sound was lost in the roar of waters; but his eye showed that he had already passed it in imagination. He held up his paddle in a position, as much as to say that he would keep exactly amid channel; and then made a sign to cut the bush-rope that held the canoe to the fallen tree. The canoe drove down, the torrent with inconceivable rapidity. It did not touch the rocks once all the way.