The current and a perfect
craftsmanship with the paddles were carrying it along at six or seven
miles an hour. He heard the rippling of water that at times was almost
like the tinkling of tiny bells, and more and more bell-like became
that sound as he listened to it. It struck a certain note for him. And
to that note another added itself, until in the purling rhythm of the
river he caught the murmuring monotone of a name
Boulain--Boulain--Boulain. The name became an obsession. It meant
something. And he knew what it meant--if he could only whip his memory
back into harness again. But that was impossible now. When he tried to
concentrate his mental faculties, his head ached terrifically.

He dipped his hand into the water and held it over his eyes. For half
an hour after that he did not raise his head. In that time not a word
was spoken by Bateese or Jeanne Marie-Anne Boulain. For the forest
people it was not an hour in which to talk. The moon had risen swiftly,
and the stars were out. Where there had been gloom, the world was now a
flood of gold and silver light. At first Carrigan allowed this to
filter between his fingers; then he opened his eyes. He felt more
evenly balanced again.

Straight in front of him was Jeanne Marie-Anne Boulain. The curtain of
dusk had risen from between them, and she was full in the radiance of
the moon. She was no longer paddling, but was looking straight ahead.
To Cardigan her figure was exquisitely girlish as he saw it now. She
was bareheaded, as he had seen tier first, and her hair hung down her
back like a shimmering mass of velvety sable in the star-and-moon glow.
Something told Carrigan she was going to turn her face in his
direction, and he dropped his hand over his eyes again, leaving a space
between the fingers. He was right in his guess. She fronted the moon,
looking at him closely--rather anxiously, he thought. She even leaned a
little toward him that she might see more clearly. Then she turned and
resumed her paddling.

Carrigan was a bit elated. Probably she had looked at him a number of
times like that during the past half-hour. And she was disturbed. She
was worrying about him. The thought of being a murderess was beginning
to frighten her. In spite of the beauty of her eyes and hair and the
slim witchery of her body he had no sympathy for her. He told himself
that he would give a year of his life to have her down at Barracks this
minute. He would never forget that three-