“Yes, yes!” Greta sprang to her feet. “See! It is a white boat. It is just about to enter the Narrows. Perhaps Florence will see it.”
“Florence—” There was a note of pain in Jeanne’s voice. “Florence has the boat. I cannot go to them. Perhaps I shall not see them—my friends, the gypsies. And they make music, such divine music!”
“Music—divine music,” Greta whispered with sudden shock. “Can one of these have been my phantom violinist?
“No,” she decided after a moment’s contemplation, “that was different. None of these could have played like that.”
“It is the call!” Jeanne cried, springing to her feet and stretching her arms toward the distant shore. Fainter, more indistinct now the music reached their ears. “The gypsies’ call! I have no boat. I cannot go.”
CHAPTER X
SILENT BATTLE
Ten minutes of running and dodging brought Florence, still gripping her rifle, squarely against a towering wall of rock.
“Did he see me?” she asked herself. “And if he did?”
Dropping back into the protecting branches of a black old fir tree, she stood breathing hard, listening.
Her mind was in a whirl. She had saved the moose. But what of herself?