As he slipped quietly around a bend in the river he
heard a splashing ahead of him, and knew that a moose was feeding,
belly-deep, in the water. At other times the sound would have set
his fingers itching for a rifle, but now it was a part of the
music of the night. Later he heard the crashing of a heavy body
along the shore and in the distance the lonely howl of a wolf. He
listened to the sounds with a quiet pleasure instead of creeping
thrills which they once sent through him. Every sound spoke of
Jeanne--of Jeanne and her world, into which each stroke of his
paddle carried them a little deeper.
And yet the truth could not but come to him that Jeanne was but a
stranger. She was a creature of mystery, as she lay there asleep
in the bow of the canoe; he loved her, and yet he did not know
her. He confessed to himself, as the night lengthened, that he
would be glad when morning came. Jeanne would clear up a half of
his perplexities then, perhaps all of them. He would at least
learn more about herself and the reason for the attack at Fort
Churchill.
He paddled for another hour, and then looked at his watch by the
light of a match. It was three o'clock.
Jeanne had not moved, but as the match burned out between his
fingers she startled him by speaking.
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