Yet always the impression persisted. It was easily put to flight, and
yet it always returned. Twice, while Dick rested in the comfort of
tobacco, Sam made long detours back through the woods, looking for
something, he knew not what; uneasy, he knew not why. Always he found
the forest empty. Everything, well ordered, was in its accustomed place.
He returned to the canoe, shaking his head, unable to rid himself of the
sensation of something foreign to the established order of things.

At noon the men drew ashore on a little point of rock. There they boiled
tea over a small fire, and ate the last of their pilot's bread, together
with bacon and the cold meat of partridges. By now the sun was high and
the air warm. Tepid odours breathed from the forest, and the songs of
familiar homely birds. Little heated breezes puffed against the
travellers' cheeks. In the sun's rays their garments steamed and their
muscles limbered.

Yet even here Sam Bolton was unable to share the relaxation of mind and
body his companion so absolutely enjoyed. Twice he paused, food
suspended, his mouth open, to listen intently for a moment, then to
finish carrying his hand to his mouth with the groping of vague
perplexity. Once he arose to another of his purposeless circles through
the woods. Dick paid no attention to these things. In the face of
danger his faculties would be as keenly on the stretch as his comrade's;
but now, the question one merely of difficult travel, the responsibility
delegated to another, he bothered his head not at all, but like a good
lieutenant left everything to his captain, half closed his eyes, and
watched the smoke curl from his brier pipe.

When evening fell the little fish-net was stretched below a chute of