“All the same,” he had insisted, “you may find yourself in need of help. Take these. They are white flares. If you need help, set one on a flat rock atop the ridge and set it off. I use ’em for taking pictures of moose at night. It can be seen for miles, that white light.
“I’m going to be hunting moose with a camera on the lakes near the far end of Rock Harbor. Wherever you are, if I see that flare I’ll come.”
Greta had accepted the white flares. They were in her kit bag now. “Not that we’ll need them. But then, you never can tell.”
After listening a long time for the return of the bewitching phantom music, she cuddled down and fell asleep.
* * * * * * * *
It was at about this same hour that Jeanne, looking from her porthole in the Ship of Joy, watching the brown old lighthouse tower that stood all dark in the moonlight, saw at one of the windows a wavering light. This was followed by a steady yellow gleam.
“Who is it?” she asked herself. “Is that truly Swen’s home? And has he returned? Or is that the head hunter making himself comfortable for the night?”
One more problem returned to her before she fell asleep. The bear had been to the mainland. Doubtless he had missed her and had followed by swimming. He had not, however, returned for some time. What had he done there on land?
“Probably nothing,” she told herself. She could not be sure, however.
In the morning she was to learn much and wonder still more.