pell-mell on a rough road to Tibbals Point, on the southwest corner
of Wolf Island. A hard journey it was, and near two o'clock, I
should say, before we put our canoe in the water. Then the man
D'ri helped me to an easy seat in the bow and shoved off. A full
moon, yellow as gold, hung low in the northwest. The water was
calm, and we cut across "the moon way," that funnelled off to the
shores of Canada.

"It is one ver' gran' night," I said in my dialect of the rude
Canuck; for I did not wish him, or any one, to know me. War is
war, but, surely, such adventures are not the thing for a woman.

"Yis, mahm," he answered, pushing hard with the paddle. "Yer a
friend o' the cap'n, ain't ye--Ray Bell?"

"Ze captain? Ah, oui, m'sieu'," I said. "One ver' brave man,
ain't it?"

"Yis, mahm," said he, soberly and with emphasis. "He 's more 'n a
dozen brave men, thet's whut he is. He's a joemightyful cuss.
Ain't nuthin' he can't dew--spryer 'n a painter, stouter 'n a
moose, an' treemenjous with a sword."

The moon sank low, peering through distant tree-columns, and went
out of sight. Long stubs of dead pine loomed in the dim, golden
afterglow, their stark limbs arching high in the heavens--like
mullions in a great Gothic window.

"When we git nigh shore over yender," said my companion, "don't
believe we better hev a grea' deal t' say. I ain't a-goin' t' be