"Go!" She made a dismissing gesture with her hand. "Do not attempt to follow me."
He stood still, looking after her. His whole soul was aflame, his voice could have cried to the heavens above that she might be enkindled with the sacred flame that leaped and flashed within him.
Rose picked her way deftly, daintily over the rocky way. She did not stop at the house, but went on to the beach. A fish-hawk was chasing a robin, that suddenly veered round as if asking her protection, and picking up a sharp stone, she took aim at the hawk and stunned him for an instant, so that he lost his balance.
"Bravo, little Rose," said a hearty voice, and the canoe turned in the bend. "If your stone had been larger it might have done more execution."
"But I saved the bird." The robin had perched himself on the limb of a dead fir tree, and began a gay song.
"You had better go farther away from your enemy," she counselled. Then to the canoeist—"Will you let me come in and go down the river?"
"Yes, I will take you down. What did you do with young Boullé?"
She colored a little. "I want to tell you."
"I saw you both up on the cliff."
"I came away and left him."