"Stop thinking, then," she interrupted abruptly in a voice that somehow reminded me of my first vision of statuary.
"I beg your pardon," I blundered on. "Father Holland and I have both forgotten to apologize for our rudeness about helping you down."
"Pray don't apologize," answered the marble voice. Then the girl laughed. "Really you're worse than I thought, when I heard you bungling over a boat. I didn't mind your rudeness. It was funny."
"Oh!" said I, abashed. There are situations in which conversation is impossible.
"I didn't mind your rudeness," she repeated, "and—and—you mustn't mind mine. Homesick people aren't—aren't—responsible, you know. Ah! Here are the torches! Give me one. I thank you—Father Holland—is it not? Please smother them down till we reach the river, or we'll be followed."
She was off in a flash, leading us through a high growth of rushes across the flats. So I was both recognized and remembered from the previous night. The thought was not displeasing. The wind moaned dismally through the reeds. I did not know that I had been glancing nervously behind at every step, with uncomfortable recollections of arrows and spear-heads, till Father Holland exclaimed:
"Why, boy! You're timid! What are you scared of?"
"The devil!" and I spoke truthfully.
"Faith! There's more than yourself runs from His Majesty; but resist the devil and he will flee from you."
"Not the kind of devil that's my enemy," I explained. I told him of the arrow-shot and spear-head, and all mirth left his manner.