She looked around, and laughed gently. He saw that she had frankly accepted the first little change in their relations.
“I like to be with the birds, M’sieu.”
Menard had no small talk. He was thinking of her evident lack of sleep.
“It is the best hour for the river, Mademoiselle.” The colours of the dawn were beginning to creep up beyond the eastern bank, sending a lance of red and gold into a low cloud bank, and a spread of soft crimson close after. “Perhaps you are fond of the fish?”
The maid was kneeling to pick a cluster of yellow flower cups. She looked up and nodded, with a smile. 56
“We fished at home, M’sieu.”
“We will go,” said Menard, abruptly. “I will bring down the canoe.”
He threw the blankets to one side, and stooping under the long canoe, carried it on his shoulders to the water. A line and hook were in his bundle; the bait was ready at a turn of the grass and weeds.
“We are two adventurers,” he said lightly, as he tossed the line into the canoe, and held out one of the paddles. “You should do your share of the morning’s work, Mademoiselle.”
She laughed again, and took the paddle. They pushed off; the maid kneeling at the bow, Menard in the stern. He guided the canoe against the current. The water lay flat under the still air, reflecting the gloomy trees on the banks, and the deepening colours of the sky. He fell into a lazy, swinging stroke, watching the maid. Her arms and shoulders moved easily, with the grace of one who had tumbled about a canoe from early childhood.