“I also,” said Marianson. “I have not eaten anything to-day.”
Her companion dropped on his knees before her and took out of her hands the food she had ready. His face expressed shame and compunction as he fed her himself, offering bites to her mouth with gentle persistence. She laughed the laugh peculiar to herself, and pushed his hand back to his own lips. So they ate together, and afterwards drank from the same cup. Marianson showed him where the drops came down, and he gathered them, smiling at her from the depths of the cave. They heard the evening cawing of crows, and the waters rushing with a wilder wash on the beach.
“I will bring more bread and meat when I come back,” promised Marianson—“unless the English have burned the house.”
“No. When it is dark I will leave the cave myself,” said the voyageur. “Is there any boat near by that I can take to escape in from the island?”
“There is my boat. But it is at the post.”
“How far are we from the post?”
“It is not so far if one might cross the island; but to go by the west shore, which would be safest, perhaps, in time of war, that is the greater part of the island's girth.”
They drew near together as they murmured, and at intervals he held the cup to her lips, making up for his forgetfulness when benumbed with sleep.
“One has but to follow the shore, however,” said the boy. “And where can I find the boat?”
“You cannot find it at all.”