"Nonsense!" he said, impatiently.
But she moved towards him, and kneeling on the canoe's bottom, bound the lace tightly round his forehead herself, fastening it with her little gold pin.
"I must look like a Turk," he exclaimed when she released him.
But the wet bandage cleared his vision; he could see plainly again.
After another five minutes, however, back came the blur. "Shall we ever get out of this accursed hole?" he cried, pressing his hands on his eyes.
"I can paddle a little; let me take the oar."
But he dashed more water on his head, and pushed her hands away. "Women never know! It's much better for me to keep on. But you must direct me,—say 'one stroke on the right,' 'two on the left,' and so on."
"Oh, why did I ever bring you in here?" she moaned, giving no directions at all, but looking at his contracted eyes with the tears welling in her own.
"See here, Margaret,—I really don't know what would happen if I should put this oar down and—and let you pity me! I can tell you once. Now be warned." He spoke with roughness.
Her tears were arrested. "Two strokes on the right," she said, quickly.