The moon sank low, peering through distant tree-columns, and went out of sight. Long stubs of dead pine loomed in the dim, golden afterglow, their stark limbs arching high in the heavens—like mullions in a great Gothic window.
"When we git nigh shore over yender," said my companion, "don't believe we better hev a grea' deal t' say. I ain't a-goin' t' be tuk—by a jugful—not ef I can help it. Got me 'n a tight place one night here 'n Canady."
"Ah, m'sieu', in Canada! How did you get out of it?" I queried.
"Slipped out," said he, shaking the canoe with suppressed laughter.
"Jes' luk a streak o' greased lig-htnin'," he added presently.
"The captain he seems ver' anxious for me to mak' great hurry," I remarked.
"No wonder; it's his lady-love he 's efter—faster 'n a weasel t' see 'er," said he, snickering.
"Good-looking?" I queried.
"Han'some es a pictur'," said he, soberly.
In a moment he dragged his paddle, listening.
"Thet air's th' shore over yender," he whispered. "Don't say a word now. I 'll put ye right on the p'int o' rocks. Creep 'long careful till ye git t' th' road, then turn t' th' left, the cap'n tol' me."