Winthrope rubbed his eyes, rose wearily, and drew a blazing stick from the fire. With this upraised as a torch, he peered around into the darkness, and advanced towards the spring.
When, having satisfied his thirst, he returned somewhat hurriedly to the fire, he was startled by the sight of a pale face gazing at him from between the leaves of the bamboo screen.
“My dear Miss Genevieve, what is the matter?” he exclaimed.
“Hush! Is he asleep?”
“Like a top.”
“Thank Heaven! . . . . Good-night.”
“Good-night–er–I say, Miss Genevieve–”
But the girl disappeared, and Winthrope, after a glance at Blake’s placid face, hurried along the cleft to stack the other fire. When he returned he noticed two bamboo rods which Blake had begun to shape into bow staves. He looked them over, with a sneer at Blake’s seemingly unskilful workmanship; but he made no attempt to finish the bows.