He was looking straight ahead. On his face was a savage, hungry look. Only the night before the girl had seen that same look in the eyes of a wolf.
She was not long in learning the reason. In plain view through that narrow gap was the patriarch of his tribe, the moose she had saved from the wolf.
“But why that look?” She was puzzled, but not for long. In the hands of that man was a rifle. An ugly smile overspread his face. His teeth shone out like fangs as he lifted the rifle and took deliberate aim at the moose.
She recalled Swen’s words: “Isle Royale is a game preserve. You will not be allowed to kill even a rabbit.”
“This man is a poacher.” Her mind, always keen, worked quickly. “I can save the moose, and I will!”
Swinging her own rifle into position, she fired well over the heads of man and moose. The shot rang out. The startled moose fled.
And the man? She did not pause to see. Like a startled rabbit she went dodging and gliding back and forth among the evergreens. In her mind, repeated over and over, was the question, “Did he see me? Did he see me?”
* * * * * * * *
After a long and glorious sun bath followed by a delicious lunch served on deck, Jeanne and Greta sat for a long time staring dreamily at the sea. Then Jeanne, throwing off her velvet robe, stood up, slim and straight, on the planked deck.
“Wonder if I can have forgotten,” she murmured. Then, seizing a tambourine, she began a slow, gliding and weaving motion that, like some beautiful work evolved from nothing by the painter’s skillful hand, became a fantastic and wonderful dance.