She did not answer, and I paddled home in silence with my eyes on her face. As we landed, she gave me her hand.
"I do not care for supper, and am going to my house. Good-night, monsieur."
I bowed over her hand. "Are you glad that you are to travel with me and know me better? Are you glad, madame?"
She smiled a little. "I—I think so, monsieur."
"You are not sure? Think of it to-night. Perhaps you will tell me to-morrow. Will you tell me to-morrow, madame?"
She drew back into the dusk. "Perhaps—to-morrow. Good-night, monsieur."
I walked through the meadow. I would not eat supper and I would not work. Finally I called Simon. He was a strange, quiet man, not as strong as the others of the crew, but of use to me for his knowledge of woodcraft. As a boy he had been held captive by the Mohawks, and he was almost as deft of hand and eye as they.
"Have you seen any sign or sound of Indian or white men in these three weeks?" I asked him.
He looked at me rather sullenly. "Yes. A canoe went through here one night about a week ago."
"Who was in it?"