"Ah, you don't know how happy I am," he exulted, "you don't know! To be free, to play the game, to match my wits against theirs—ah, that is life!"
"I am sorry to see you go," she murmured, "very sorry. The days will be full of terror until I know you are safe."
"Oh, yes," he answered; "but I'll get there, and I shall tell it all to you at Quebec—at Quebec in August. It will be a brave tale! You will be there—surely?"
"Yes," said the girl, softly; "I will be there—surely."
"Good! Feel the wind on your cheek? It is from the Southland, where I am going. I have ventured—and I have not lost! It is something not to lose, when one has ventured against many. They have my goods—but I—"
"You?" repeated Virginia, as he hesitated.
"Ah, I don't go back empty-handed!" he cried. Her heart stood still, then leaped in anticipation of what he would say. Her soul hungered for the words, the words that should not only comfort her, but should be to her the excuse for many things. She saw him—shadowy, graceful against the dim gray of the river and sky—lean ever so slightly toward her. But then he straightened again to his paddle, and contented himself with repeating merely: "Quebec—in August, then."
The canoe grated. Ned Trent with an exclamation drove his paddle into the clay.
"Lucky the bottom is soft here," said he; "I did not realize we were so close ashore."
He drew the canoe up on the shelving beach, helped Virginia out, took his rifle, and so stood ready to depart.