"What time, if please?" he asked. "I t'ink nine hour, but no sure."

"It is near nine," she said. She hastily tidied up the table after his
meal, and then came and sat in her chair over against the wall of the
rude fireplace. "Nine--dat is good. The moon rise at 'leven; den I go.
I go on," he said, "if you show me de queeck way."

"You go on--how can you go on?" she asked, almost sharply.

"Will you not to show me?" he asked. "Show you what?" she asked
abruptly.

"The queeck way to Askatoon," he said, as though surprised that she
should ask. "They say me if I get here you will tell me queeck way to
Askatoon. Time, he go so fas', an' I have loose a day an' a night, an'
I mus' get Askatoon if I lif--I mus' get dere in time. It is all safe to
de stroke of de hour, mais, after, it is--bon Dieu--it is hell then. Who
shall forgif me--no!"

"The stroke of the hour--the stroke of the hour!" It beat into her
brain. Were they both thinking of the same thing now?

"You will show me queeck way. I mus' be Askatoon in two days, or it is
all over," he almost moaned. "Is no man here--I forget dat name, my head
go round like a wheel; but I know dis place, an' de good God He help me
fin' my way to where I call out, bien sur. Dat man's name I have
forget."

"My father's name is John Alroyd," she answered absently, for there were
hammering at her brain the words, "The stroke of the hour."