When the fog lifted we went on, and a mile and a half below the station the current quickened. The pilgrims were dozing. Suddenly little sticks began flying about, thick: arrows, by Jove, we were being shot at. My helmsman, a fool of the finest breed, dropped the wheel and snatched up a rifle. I saw a face amongst the leaves, and then something big appeared in the air before the shutter. It was the shaft of a spear. The man at my feet looked up at me with an air of inquiry and died without a sound, and his blood filled my shoes. I blew the whistle again and again, and the tumult of warlike yells was checked, and a tremulous wail of mournful fear and despair floated out of the woods. Then I pulled off my shoes and flung them overboard.