The dusk deepened. The moon slowly rose. He cooked his scanty meal and took a deep draught from a horn of whiskey from beneath a board in the flooring. He had not the courage to face Dupont without it, nor yet to forget what he must forget if he was to do the work Dupont came to arrange—he must forget the girl who had saved his life and the influence of those strange moments in which she had spoken down to him, in the abyss where he had been lying.
He sat in the doorway, a fire gleaming behind him; he drank in the good air as though his lungs were thirsty for it, and saw the silver glitter of the moon upon the water. Not a breath of wind stirred, and the shining path the moon made upon the reedy lake fascinated his eye. Everything was so still except that whisper, louder in his ear than it had ever been before.
Suddenly, upon the silver path upon the lake there shot a silent canoe, with a figure as silently paddling toward him. He gazed for a moment dismayed, and then got to his feet with a jerk.
“Dupont,” he said, mechanically.
The canoe swished among the reeds and rushes, scraped on the shore, and a tall, burly figure sprang from it and stood still, looking at the house.
“Qui reste là—Lygon?” he asked.
“Dupont,” was the nervous, hesitating reply.
Dupont came forward quickly. “Ah, ben, here we are again—so,” he grunted, cheerily.
Entering the house, they sat before the fire, holding their hands to the warmth from force of habit, though the night was not cold.
“Ben, you will do it to-night—then?” Dupont said. “Sacré, it is time!”