He pushed his boat on, his sensations melting into an excited blank of
thought in which curiosity was alone apparent. He was growing strangely
excited after his long calm despondency; no doubt the excitement of the
other, who was shouting and jabbering not far away in the moonlit
night, affected him.

He found his way through the trees of the opening; evidently the splash
of his oar was caught by the owner of the noisy voice, for before he
could see any one a silence succeeded to the noise, a sudden absolute
silence, in itself shocking.

"Are you there, Markham?" cried Toyner.

No answer.

Toyner peered into the silver mist on all sides of him; the sensation of
the diffused moonlight was almost dazzling, the trees looked far away,
large and unreal. At length among them he saw the great log that had
fallen almost horizontal with the water; upon it a solitary human figure
stood erect in an attitude of frenzied defiance.

"I have come from your daughter, Markham." Then in a moment, by way of
self-explanation, he said, "Toyner."

The man addressed only flung a clenched fist into the air. The silence
of his pantomime now that there was some one to speak to was made
ghastly by the harangue which he had been pouring out upon the solitude.

"Have you lost your head?" asked Toyner. "I have come from your