"What, sweetheart!—crying? It was the signal to come on," cried he.
"Yes; to see you sooner, George. Father is out yonder. But no, he will never, never consent."
"Then you will come with me, love," he said, taking her hands.
"No, no; I dare not," sobbed Ruth. "Father would overtake us. He swears to shoot you on sight! Go, George! Escape while you can! Oh, if he should find you here!"
"But, darling love, we need not fear. We can escape easily. I know the forest path. But—" Then he thought how weak her pace.
"We might cross here before he could come up!" cried Winthrop, looking toward where the Squire's boat was now a distant blotch.
"No, no," wailed Ruth, yet yielding to his embrace. "This is the last time I shall see you forever and forever. Go, dear,—good-bye, my love, my love."
But he clasped her in his strong arms, kissing, imploring, cheering her,—and how should true love choose hopeless renunciation?
* * * * *
Tempting, defying, regaining his lost ground, drifting down again, trying hard to tire out and subdue his heart-pangs, Bedell dallied with death more closely than ever. He had let his skiff drift far down toward the Falls. Often he could see the wide smooth curve where the green volume first lapses vastly on a lazy slope, to shoulder up below as a huge calm billow, before pitching into the madness of waves whose confusion of tossing and tortured crests hurries to the abyss. The afternoon grew toward evening before he pulled steadily home, crawling away from the roarers against the cruel green, watching the ominous cloud with some such grim humor as if under observation by an overpowering but baffled enemy.