He still met my look.  “And if I were not ignorant?” he asked.  “Could I, one Englishman, alone and unarmed, accomplish anything that would hurt you?  You see that I am harmless.  Why not be friends?”

I shrugged my shoulders.

“So you are determined that I am a secret ambassador,” he meditated.  “Well, I must act my part with dignity.  And you think we cannot be comrades?  I dislike to irritate you as I do.”

I answered him soberly.  “We will be partners,” I agreed; “friends for the night’s bivouac, willing to help and to share.”

“But you will not trust me?”

I looked away.  “What would a truce between us mean?  You are English, I, French.  Be assured that sooner or later the fox eats the hen.”

He laughed.  “Who is to be the fox?” He jumped to his feet.  “Partners, then, it shall be.  A strange creed.  A helping hand to-day and a knife in the back to-morrow.  But I shall follow you, monsieur.”

“You will follow?”

“In this path as in others.  If you refuse to admit even a truce between us, I agree.  I shall keep out of your way as much as possible.  Only—­I would not have you think me ungrateful.”

I could never forbear a smile when he was serious.  “We shall probably think very little about each other,” I said comfortably.  “Once settled into routine we shall have work to fill our thought.  You will learn to do your share.  I think you willing.”

“Indeed I am willing, monsieur.”

“Good.  So we shall work hard, sleep early, and the months will pass before we know.  Let us not talk of trust or friendship, since our ways are divided.”

He bowed.  “You are right, monsieur.  And I meant only this,—­I will try not to be an irritation.  You will try not to think of me as such.  You agree?”

I smiled again.  “Yes.  Partners for the night,” I reminded him.  “I am gratified, Monsieur Starling, that you see the matter so reasonably.  There is a gulf between us, and we cannot change it.”  We did not speak again till we reached Pierre at the shore.

CHAPTER IX

WESTWARD

Where were the pursuing Indians?  For two days we watched, and the water was unflecked by sign of life.  We listened in the murk of night and strained our eyes in the sun’s dazzle.  But we found nothing but forest and sky and mystery.  We were alone with our shadows.

The forty-eight hours crawled.  Except at noonday we were chilled, our stomachs complained of the cold food, and our minds, and therefore our bodies, were sluggish.  The Englishman had the best of it, for he could sleep like a bear in winter.  Save for the hours when he was on watch he knew but little of what was passing.  He lay on the warm side of the bank and slept with his face to the sun.

At the end of two days I felt that I had paid all reasonable due to Prudence, and could follow Inclination and be comfortable.