Over the calm flood, stained deep with crimson, the canoe glided in the sanguine evening light. But Tressa sang no more and her head was bent sideways as though listening—always listening—to something inaudible to Cleves—something very, very far away which she seemed to hear through the still drip of the paddles.
They were not yet in sight of their landing when she spoke to him, partly turning:
“I think some of your men have arrived.”
“Where?” he asked, astonished.
“At the house.”
“Why do you think so?”
“I think so.”
They paddled a little faster. In a few minutes their dock came into view.
“It’s funny,” he said, “that you should think some of our men have arrived from the North. I don’t see anybody on the dock.”
“It’s Mr. Recklow,” she said in a low voice. “He is seated on our veranda.”