The cry came again, prolonged, entreating, not to be confounded with that of any forest wilding.
“It’s from the north end of our own island!”
The master’s ear was not less keen than the girl’s, and both had the acuteness of an Indian’s, but his judgment was better.
“From the mainland, across the narrows.”
Neither delayed, as a mutual impulse sent them toward the shore, but again Angelique interposed.
“Thoughtless child, have you no sense? With the master just out of a faint that was nigh death itself! With nothin’ in his poor stomach since the mornin’ and your own as empty. Wait. Eat. Then chase loons, if you will.”
Mr. Dutton laughed, though he also frowned and cast a swift, anxious glance toward Margot. But she was intent upon nothing save answering that far-off cry.
“Which canoe, uncle?”
“Mine.”