And, loud and clear, the voice we hear of the boatman so honest and true;
He’s rowing, rowing, rowing along,
He’s rowing, rowing, rowing along—
He’s rowing and singing his song.”
The subsiding wind wafted to her ears snatches of the jolly little ballad, in which one could catch the very rhythm and dip of oar or paddle. Still it was as well to wait and see if this were flesh or apparition before pronouncing judgment.
It was certainly a canoe, snowy white and most familiar—so familiar that the watcher began to lose her first terror. A girl knelt in it, Indian-fashion, gracefully and evenly dipping her paddle to the melody of her lips. Her bare head was thrown back and her fair hair floated loose. Her face was lighted by the western glow, on which she fixed her eyes with such intentness that she did not perceive the woman who awaited her with such mixed emotions.
A GIRL KNELT IN THE CANOE, INDIAN-FASHION
But Tom saw. Tom, the eagle, perched in the bow, keen of vision and of prejudice. Between him and old Angelique was a grudge of long standing. Whenever they met, even after a brief separation, he expressed his feelings by his hoarsest screech. He did so now, and, by so doing, recalled Margot from sky-gazing and his enemy from doubt.
“Ah, Angelique! Watching for me? How kind of you. Hush, Tom; let her alone; good Angelique, poor Angelique.”