wn close
together.

It was but a short time before she felt a jerk at the line. Her arms
straightened out, and she pressed her lips tightly together. "Quick!"
she said. "Go ahead!"

"Can you hold it?" he asked, as he dipped his paddle.

She nodded. "I wish the line were longer. It will be hard to give him
any room." She wound the cord around her wrist. "Will the line hold,
M'sieu?"

"I think so. See if you can pull in."

She leaned back, and pulled steadily, then shook her head. "Not very
much. Perhaps, if you can get into the shallow water--"

Menard slowly worked the canoe through an opening in the rushes. There
was a thrashing about and plunging not two rods away. Once the fish
leaped clear of the water in a curve of clashing silver.

"It's a salmon," he said. "A small one."

The maid held hard, but the colour had gone from her face. The canoe
drew nearer to the shore.

"Hold fast," said Menard. He gave a last sweep of the paddle, and
crept forward to the bow. Kneeling behind the maid, he reached over
her shoulder, and took the line below her hand.

"Careful, M'sieu; it may break."

"We must risk it." He pulled slowly in until the fish was close under
the gunwale. "Now can you hold?"

"Yes." She shook a straying lock of hair from her eyes, and took
another turn of the cord around her wrist.

"Steady," he said. He drew his knife, leaned over the gunwale, and
stabbed at the fighting fish until his blade sank in just below the
gills, and he could lift it aboard.

The maid laughed nervously, and rested her hands upon the two
gunwales. Her breath was gone, and there was a red mark around her
wrist where the cord had been. The canoe had drifted into the rushes,
and Menard went back to his paddle, and worked out again into the
channel.

"And now, Mademoiselle," he said, "we shall have a breakfast of our
own. You need not paddle. I will take her down."

Her breath was coming back. She laughed, and sat comfortably in the
bow, facing Menard, and letting her eyes follow the steady swing and
catch of his paddle. When they reached the camp, the _voyageurs_ were
astir, but Danton and the priest still slept. The first red glare of
the sun was levelled at them over the eastern trees.

Menard made a fire under an arch of flat stones, and trimming a strip
of oak wood with his hatchet, he laid the cleaned fish upon it and
kept it on the fire until it was brown and crisp. The maid sat by, her
eyes alert and her c