"'So lone a lake, so sweet a strand,'" repeated Adam, dropping his head back against the stern.
He did not move while the sound of the other's oars died away behind him. He did not move while the afternoon shadows spread far over the water.
The long Canadian twilight advanced stage by stage. First, all Magog flushed, as if a repetition of the old miracle had turned it to wine. Then innumerable night-hawks uttered their four musical notes in endless succession, upon the heights, down in the woods, from the mainland mountain. The north star became discernible almost overhead. Then, with slow and irregular strokes, Adam pulled away from the cliff, and brought his keel to grate the sand in front of his tent.
Eva was sitting there on a rock, huddling a shawl around her.
"Oh, Adam Macgregor!" she began, in a low voice, "and do you condescend to bring your wraith back to me at last?"
"It's nothing but my wraith," said Adam, lifting his eggs and butter and milk, and stepping from the boat. "The mon in me died aboot noon."
Eva walked along by his side to the cool-box, where he deposited his load.
"What is the matter with you, laddie, that you look and talk so strangely?"
"Oh, naught," said Adam, turning and facing her. "I but saw you kissing Louis Satanette on the hill to-day."