“I’m sure it is,” she said swiftly and with conviction.
“Why are you sure?”
“I don’t know; I feel it.”
“It may be well enough,” said I, “but I don’t feel it’s right of us to lie here without making a move. If our friends can’t help us we ought to know, so we may plan to help ourselves.”
“If you have decided upon it, I suppose you will go.”
“Not unless you give your consent.”
“My consent?”
“Yes. You don’t think I’d go away and leave you here alone in the cave if you tell me you’d be afraid?”
“I shall be afraid,” she said soberly. I looked at her a little disappointed. “I shall be afraid every minute until your return that something may happen to you. And then,” she added lightly, “who would get birds for my breakfast in the morning? Of course you have my consent to go. I’ll lie here in my canoe and try to think noble thoughts. But do be careful.”
I waited until nine before leaving the cave. It was then pitch-dark in the woods. I had, however, laid out my course in my mind’s eye, and set out for the crest of the ridge without hesitation.