“It is near nine,” she said. She hastily tidied up the table after his meal, and then came and sat in her chair over against the wall of the rude fireplace.
“Nine—dat is good. The moon rise at ’leven; den I go. I go on,” he said, “if you show me de queeck way.”
“You go on—how can you go on?” she asked, almost sharply.
“Will you not to show me?” he asked.
“Show you what?” she asked, abruptly.
“The queeck way to Askatoon,” he said, as though surprised that she should ask. “They say me if I get here you will tell me queeck way to Askatoon. Time, he go so fas’, an’ I have loose a day an’ a night, an’ I mus’ get Askatoon if I lif—I mus’ get dere in time. It is all safe to de stroke of de hour, mais, after, it is—bon Dieu!—it is hell then. Who shall forgif me—no!”
“The stroke of the hour—the stroke of the hour!” It beat into her brain. Were they both thinking of the same thing now?
“You will show me queeck way. I mus’ be Askatoon in two days, or it is all over,” he almost moaned. “Is no man here—I forget dat name, my head go round like a wheel; but I know dis place, an’ de good God, He help me fin’ my way to where I call out, bien sûr. Dat man’s name I have forget.”
“My father’s name is John Alroyd,” she answered, absently, for there were hammering at her brain the words, “The stroke of the hour.”
“Ah, now I get—yes. An’ your name, it is Loisette Alroy—ah, I have it in my mind now—Loisette. I not forget dat name, I not forget you—no.”