Hugh woke with a start. Dawn had come, but the little cove was shrouded in white mist. Beside him on the balsam bed, Blaise was sitting upright, his body rigid, his bronze face tense. He was listening intently. Hugh freed his arms from his blanket and raised himself on his elbow. Blaise turned his head.
“You heard it?” he whispered.
“Something waked me. What was it?”
“A gun shot.”
“Impossible!”
“I heard it clearly. I had just waked.”
“Near by?”
“Not very far away. Up there somewhere.”
Blaise pointed to the now invisible woods above the sheer cliff that formed the central shore of the cove between the beaches. “It is hard to be quite sure of the direction in this fog, and there was only one shot.”
For some minutes the two lads sat still, listening, but the sound was not repeated. It seemed incredible that any human being should be so near on the big island where neither white men nor Indians were ever known to come intentionally. Hugh was inclined to think Blaise mistaken. The younger boy had certainly heard some sharp sound, but Hugh could scarcely believe it was the report of a gun.