"
"Nothin' of the sort, miss," said Cai, stoutly. "I thinks badly o'
most men--that's all."
His talk was always cross-grained, but its volume betrayed a quite
unwonted geniality to-night. And half a mile farther, where the dark
river bent around Wiseman's Stone, he so far relaxed as to rest on
his oars and challenge the famous echo from the wooded cliffs.
Somewhat to Miss Marty's astonishment it responded.
"And by night, too! I had no idea!"
"Night?" repeated Mr. Tamblyn, after rowing on for another fifty
strokes. He paused as if he had that moment heard, and glanced
upward. "'Tis much as ever. The sky's palin' already, and we'll not
reach Lerryn by sunrise. I think, miss, if you'll step ashore, this
here's as good a place as any. Scipio and me'll keep the boat and
turn our backs."
Miss Marty understood. The boat's nose having been brought alongside
a ridge of rock, she landed in silence, climbed the foreshore, up by
a hazel-choked path to a meadow above, and there, solemnly thrusting
her hands into the lush grass, turned to the east and bathed her face
in the dew. It is a rite which must be performed alone, in silence;
and the morning sun must not surprise it.
"You've been terrible quick," remarked Cai, as she stepped down to
the foreshore again in the ghostly light. "You can't have stayed to
dabble your feet. Didn't think it wise, I s'pose? And I dare say
you're right.
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