For a time it was pleasant to dip the long oar in pure silver, but to change sides was difficult, and there was no give or play in iron Maisie. It was like paddling a liner.
Inch by inch he drew near to the southern end of the great island, covered with the unbroken forest the tops of which Jean had surveyed from the mountain. The shores were full of mysterious and lonely bays, and presently he saw his own namesake shambling along a moonlit bit of sand.
He rounded the southern tip and made his way among innumerable islands, getting shorter of breath every minute. Finally he gave out and had to lie down on the floor to relieve his heart.
She left the wheel and came to him.
“Dearest,” he gasped, “that contract is still in my pocket.”
“Never! Why, under that contract you’d work yourself to death for me.”
She seized the ten-foot oar and kept on paddling for half an hour. Then she stopped to scan the northern silhouette.
“Look, Marvin, the chimney of the old fort! I’ve simply got to climb that hill and see what else is left. You can stay right here in the harbor, but you mustn’t disturb the canoes coming in with bales of beaver. You’ll see me up there with the ghosts of the British lads who died here of scurvy because rich folks like furs.”
But Marvin would not let her try it alone. He brought the launch up, took some blankets and a lantern, rowed her ashore, and made the dory fast to a single post, all that was left of the ancient British wharf.
When they had barely landed, the woods above them began to hum with a sudden northwest wind. As they mounted toward the crest it became a gale that seemed to threaten even the ancient limestone chimney.