On and on he paddled with silent speed, until, coming to an abrupt bend in the stream, he saw another canoe on the opposite shore. Looking about him, he appeared to hesitate; but suddenly a golden thing, round like a second moon, appeared over the edge of the lonely craft.
“You will find them,” he called, “on a direct line with your canoe, back in the brushwood. Farewell, Gyll, and thank you.”
“Thank you!” came the answer, in exasperation, after him. “Here have I been starving, fearing to move! Villanous—” but he was beyond earshot now, as, running the prow of his boat onto a shelving bank in the distance, he plunged straightway into the forest.
CHAPTER XIV
“Their blood and yours shall seal these treacheries!”
—Marlowe, in Edward the Second.
“Browsing soul! I cannot contemplate so much obtuseness without longing to prod thee to some show of wakefulness with my sword!”
It was Roger Prat who spoke, and Hugh Rouse who gave no answer. They were lying at full length on the brow of a low cliff, looking out across the water. It was night. Not a star shone. The town lay seemingly asleep behind them. A large culverin stood close to one side, also peering through a fringe of grasses. The two ships, at anchor within musket-range, carried no lights.