"Let us not go too near shore anywhere," said Helen; and Miss Pat murmured acquiescence.
"No; we don't care to meet people," she remarked, a trifle anxiously.
"I'm afraid I don't know any to introduce you to," I replied, and turned away into the broadest part of the lake. The launch was capable of a lively clip and the engine worked capitally. I had no fear of being caught, even if we should be pursued, and this, in the broad light of the peaceful Sabbath afternoon, seemed the remotest possibility.
It had been understood that we were to remain out until the sun dropped into the western wood, and I loitered on toward the upper lake where the shores were rougher.
"That's a real island over there—they call it Battle Orchard—you must have a glimpse of it."
"Oh, nothing is so delightful as an island!" exclaimed Helen; and she quoted William Sharp's lines:
"There is an Isle beyond our ken,
Haunted by Dreams of weary men.
Gray Hopes enshadow it with wings
Weary with burdens of old things:
There the insatiate water-springs
Rise with the tears of all who weep:
And deep within it,—deep, oh, deep!—
The furtive voice of Sorrow sings.
There evermore,
Till Time be o'er,
Sad, oh, so sad! the Dreams of men
Drift through the Isle beyond our ken."
Ijima had scanned the lake constantly since we started, as was his habit. Miss Pat turned to speak to Helen of the shore that now swept away from us in broader curves as we passed out of the connecting channel into the farther lake. Ijima remarked to me quietly, as though speaking of the engine:
"There's a man following in a rowboat.",
And as I replied to some remark by Miss Pat, I saw, half a mile distant, its sails hanging idly, a sloop that answered Gillespie's description of the Stiletto. Its snowy canvas shone white against the green verdure of Battle Orchard.