bridge. The wild music of the horns was deafening; the beating of the great drum was just above their heads; the bridge vibrated beneath the tramp of feet. There must have been many hangers-on from Mistwell following. A blaze of light from torches fell upon the stream, and glittered on the sticky leaves of the Balm of Gilead trees that overhung it. The darkness was driven back, receding up the stream and under the bridge where Derek and Fawnie were hiding. They seemed to be under a whirlpool of strident music and leaping light. She stretched her hand back to his and clasped his fingers. The band descended the opposite slope; the blaze of the torches was withdrawn as abruptly as it had appeared, and now fell in waning blotches on the field of ripened grain beyond the bridge. Gradually the sound of the horns became less strident, then was softened by distance into a plaintive reiteration of a few notes. Fawnie uttered a deep sigh. Once more darkness enfolded them.
Derek dipped his paddle. . . .
"Which way?" he asked, as the canoe slipped into the lake.
The only light visible was a calm, pale beam from the Mistwell lighthouse.
"Away from that light," she whispered.
Derek turned the canoe in the direction of the unseen cliffs that rose before Durras. Fitful lightning, now and then, played upon their sides and showed him where he was. No sound broke the stillness now but the delicate drip of water from their paddles.
It seemed to the young man that a long time passed, and still she did not speak. A glimmer of lightning showed him her upright, slender body with bared arms using her paddle with short, quick Indian strokes. What were her thoughts, he wondered. Where was she leading him? He
