The little party went ashore. Dave and Rufus soon settled down in a dark corner to talk with fishermen about boats, motors and the latest catch of fish.
Florence stole off alone to wander down the narrow path that leads to the main dock. Hanging high, the moon shining between the birch trees painted patches of gold on the path. The strong smell of damp earth, mingled with the heavy odor of thimbleberries in bloom, greeted her at every turn. The cool damp of the night made her shiver with sheer joy.
“After all that stifling heat,” she whispered.
Arrived at a spot close to the dock, she turned to one side, climbed a steep slope, scrambled up the side of a great rock, then with hands clasped about her knees, sat looking away at the moonlit harbor that, stretching away and away in that darkness, seemed never to end.
“Glorious!” Suddenly she sprang to her feet to swing her arms wide and to drink in the cool air of night as some famished one fresh from the desert might drink cold water.
“How perfect to live here,” she breathed. “Never too hot nor too cold, and always, always, so beautiful!” And it was beautiful—jagged rocks here, primeval forest there and, far as eye could see, the deep, dark, mysterious waters of Superior.
Yet, even as she stood there, she saw, as in an evil dream, the threat. For, from the far-off shores of Siskowit just then a distant red gleam caught her eye.
“The fire!” she exclaimed breathlessly.
It was true, even as she watched, like the flash of a distant lighthouse, there came a flare that increased in intensity for an instant, then went black.
All too well she knew the meaning of that; those boys had worked hard, but had not entirely won their battle.