She stooped to undo the shackles on his ankles. As she did so he leaned over as if to kiss her. She threw back her head in disgust.
“You have been drink,” she said, and she stopped her work of freeing him.
“What’d wet your eye—no more,” he answered. She stood up. “I will not,” she said, pointing to the shackles, “if you drink some more—nevare some more—nevare!”
“Divil a drop thin, darlin’, till we fly our flag yander,” pointing towards where he supposed the town to be.
“Not till then?” she asked, with a merry little sneer. “Ver’ well, it is comme ca!” She held out her hand. Then she burst into a soft laugh, for his hands were tied. “Let me kiss it,” he said, bending forward.
“No, no, no,” she said. “We will shake our hands after,” and she stooped, took off the shackles, and freed his arms.
“Now if you like,” she said, and they shook hands as McGilveray stood up and threw out his chest. But, try as he would to look important, she was still an inch taller than he.
A few moments later they were hurrying quietly through the woods, to the river. There was no speaking. There was only the escaping prisoner and the gay-hearted girl speeding along in the night, the mumbling of the quiet cascade in their ears, the shifting moon playing hide-and-seek with the clouds. They came out on the bank a distance above where McGilveray had landed, and the girl paused and spoke in a whisper. “It is more hard now,” she said. “Here is a boat, and I must paddle—you would go to splash. Sit still and be good.”
She loosed the boat into the current gently, and, holding it, motioned to him to enter.
“You’re goin’ to row me over?” he asked, incredulously.