The splash of a fish jumping broke the spell.

“I wish we had the canoe now,” remarked Joan; “we could paddle out to the other islands.”

“Of course,” I said; “wait here and I’ll go across for it,” and was turning to feel my way back through the darkness when she stopped me in a voice that meant what it said.

“No; Mr. Sangree will get it.  We will wait here and cooee to guide him.”

The Canadian was off in a moment, for she had only to hint of her wishes and he obeyed.

“Keep out from shore in case of rocks,” I cried out as he went, “and turn to the right out of the lagoon.  That’s the shortest way round by the map.”

My voice travelled across the still waters and woke echoes in the distant islands that came back to us like people calling out of space.  It was only thirty or forty yards over the ridge and down the other side to the lagoon where the boats lay, but it was a good mile to coast round the shore in the dark to where we stood and waited.  We heard him stumbling away among the boulders, and then the sounds suddenly ceased as he topped the ridge and went down past the fire on the other side.

“I didn’t want to be left alone with him,” the girl said presently in a low voice.  “I’m always afraid he’s going to say or do something—­” She hesitated a moment, looking quickly over her shoulder towards the ridge where he had just disappeared—­“something that might lead to unpleasantness.”

She stopped abruptly.

“You frightened, Joan!” I exclaimed, with genuine surprise.  “This is a new light on your wicked character.  I thought the human being who could frighten you did not exist.”  Then I suddenly realised she was talking seriously—­looking to me for help of some kind—­and at once I dropped the teasing attitude.

“He’s very far gone, I think, Joan,” I added gravely.  “You must be kind to him, whatever else you may feel.  He’s exceedingly fond of you.”

“I know, but I can’t help it,” she whispered, lest her voice should carry in the stillness; “there’s something about him that—­that makes me feel creepy and half afraid.”

“But, poor man, it’s not his fault if he is delicate and sometimes looks like death,” I laughed gently, by way of defending what I felt to be a very innocent member of my sex.

“Oh, but it’s not that I mean,” she answered quickly; “it’s something I feel about him, something in his soul, something he hardly knows himself, but that may come out if we are much together.  It draws me, I feel, tremendously.  It stirs what is wild in me—­deep down—­oh, very deep down,—­yet at the same time makes me feel afraid.”

“I suppose his thoughts are always playing about you,” I said, “but he’s nice-minded and—­”

“Yes, yes,” she interrupted impatiently, “I can trust myself absolutely with him.  He’s gentle and singularly pure-minded.  But there’s something else that—­” She stopped again sharply to listen.  Then she came up close beside me in the darkness, whispering—­