“An hour will put me right,” I said, smiling at him, yet making no attempt to rise. “I have been in a boat so long I have lost all strength in my limbs.”
“We feel that, all of us,” cheerily, “but come Barbeau, unpack, and let us have what cheer we can.”
I know not when food was ever more welcome, although it was simple enough to be sure––a bit of hard cracker, and some jerked deer meat, washed down by water from the stream––yet hunger served to make these welcome. We were at the edge of the wood, already growing dark and dreary with the shadows of approaching night. The wind, what there was, was from the south, and, if there was any firing at the fort, no sound of it reached us. Once we imagined we saw a skulking figure on the opposite bank––an Indian Barbeau insisted––but it disappeared so suddenly as to make us doubt our own eyes.
The loneliness and peril of our situation had tendency to keep us silent, although De Artigny endeavored to cheer me with kindly speech, and gave Barbeau careful description of the trail leading to the fort gate. If aught happened to him, we were to press on until we attained shelter. The way in which the words were said brought a lump into my throat, and before I knew the significance of the action, my hand clasped his. I felt the grip of his fingers, and saw his face turn toward me in the dusk. Barbeau got to his feet, gun in hand, and stood shading his eyes.
“I would like a closer view of that village yonder,” he said, “and will go down the bank a hundred yards or so.”
“’Twill do no harm,” returned De Artigny, still clasping my hand. “There is time yet before we make our venture.”
He disappeared in the shadows, leaving us alone, and I glanced aside at De Artigny’s face, my heart beating fiercely.
“You did not like to hear me speak as I did?” he questioned quietly.
“No,” I answered honestly, “the thought startled me. If––if anything happened to you, I––I should be all alone.”