He turned his face to the front and shot the canoe forward.  There was silence except for the quiet dipping of their paddles, the dripping of the water from the lifted blades, and the song drifting down river.  Finally Benton added: 

“I don’t know what he will say to you, but perhaps he will give you good advice—­on those matters which the centuries can’t change.”

Cara’s voice came soft, with a hint of repressed tears.  “He has already given me good advice, dear—­” she said, “good advice that I can’t follow.”

CHAPTER V

IT IS DECIDED TO MASQUERADE

The first day of quail-shooting found Van Bristow’s guests afield.

Separated from the others, Benton and Cara came upon a small grove, like an oasis in the stretching acres of stubble.  Under a scarlet maple that reared itself skyward all aflame, and shielded by a festooning profusion of wild-grape, a fallen beech-trunk offered an inviting seat.  The girl halted and grounded arms.

The man seated himself at her feet and looked up.  He framed a question, then hesitated, fearing the answer.  Finally he spoke, controlling his voice with an effort.

“Cara,” he questioned, “how long have I?”

Her eyes widened as if with terror.  “A very—­very little time, dear,” she said.  “It frightens me to think how little.  Then—­then—­nothing but memory.  Do you realize what it all means?” She leaned forward and laid a hand on each of his shoulders.  “Just one week more, and after that I shall look out to sea when the sun sinks, red and sullen, into leaden waters and think of—­of Arcady—­and you.”

“Don’t, Cara!” He seized her hands and went on talking fast and vehemently.  “Listen!  I love you—­that is not a unique thing.  You love me—­that is the miracle.  And because of a distorted idea of duty, our lives must go to wreck.  Don’t you see the situation is ludicrous—­intolerable?  You are trying to live a medieval life in a day of wireless telegraph and air ships.”

She nodded.  “But what are we going to do about it?” she questioned simply.

“Cara, dear—­if I could find a way!” he pleaded eagerly.  “Suppose I could play the magician!”

He rose and stood back of the log.

She leaned back so that she might look into his eyes.  “I wish you could,” she mused with infinite weariness.

He stooped suddenly and kissed the drooping lips with a resentful sense of the monstrous injustice of a scheme of things wherein such lips could droop.

“No, no, no!” she cried.  “You must not!  I’ve got to be Queen of Galavia—­I’ve got to be his wife.”  Then, in a quick, half-frightened tone:  “Yet when you are with me I can’t help it.  It’s wicked to love you—­and I do.”

He smiled through the misery of his own frown.  “Am I so bad as that?” he questioned.

“You are so bad”—­she suddenly caught his hands in hers and slowly shook her head—­“that I don’t trust myself on the same side of the road with you.  You must go across and sit on that opposite side.”  She lightly kissed his forehead.  “That’s a kiss before exile—­now go.”