“There you are!” he called aloud.  “Good again!  Been setting the night-lines, eh?  Capital!  And your mother’s still fast asleep, Joan.”

His cheery laugh floated across the water; he had not been in the least disturbed by our absence, for old campers are not easily alarmed.

“Now, remember,” he went on, after we had told our little tale of travel by the fire, and Mrs. Maloney had asked for the fourth time exactly where her tent was and whether the door faced east or south, “every one takes their turn at cooking breakfast, and one of the men is always out at sunrise to catch it first.  Hubbard, I’ll toss you which you do in the morning and which I do!” He lost the toss.  “Then I’ll catch it,” I said, laughing at his discomfiture, for I knew he loathed stirring porridge.  “And mind you don’t burn it as you did every blessed time last year on the Volga,” I added by way of reminder.

Mrs. Maloney’s fifth interruption about the door of her tent, and her further pointed observation that it was past nine o’clock, set us lighting lanterns and putting the fire out for safety.

But before we separated for the night the clergyman had a time-honoured little ritual of his own to go through that no one had the heart to deny him.  He always did this.  It was a relic of his pulpit habits.  He glanced briefly from one to the other of us, his face grave and earnest, his hands lifted to the stars and his eyes all closed and puckered up beneath a momentary frown.  Then he offered up a short, almost inaudible prayer, thanking Heaven for our safe arrival, begging for good weather, no illness or accidents, plenty of fish, and strong sailing winds.

And then, unexpectedly—­no one knew why exactly—­he ended up with an abrupt request that nothing from the kingdom of darkness should be allowed to afflict our peace, and no evil thing come near to disturb us in the night-time.

And while he uttered these last surprising words, so strangely unlike his usual ending, it chanced that I looked up and let my eyes wander round the group assembled about the dying fire.  And it certainly seemed to me that Sangree’s face underwent a sudden and visible alteration.  He was staring at Joan, and as he stared the change ran over it like a shadow and was gone.  I started in spite of myself, for something oddly concentrated, potent, collected, had come into the expression usually so scattered and feeble.  But it was all swift as a passing meteor, and when I looked a second time his face was normal and he was looking among the trees.

And Joan, luckily, had not observed him, her head being bowed and her eyes tightly closed while her father prayed.

“The girl has a vivid imagination indeed,” I thought, half laughing, as I lit the lanterns, “if her thoughts can put a glamour upon mine in this way”; and yet somehow, when we said good-night, I took occasion to give her a few vigorous words of encouragement, and went to her tent to make sure I could find it quickly in the night in case anything happened.  In her quick way the girl understood and thanked me, and the last thing I heard as I moved off to the men’s quarters was Mrs. Maloney crying that there were beetles in her tent, and Joan’s laughter as she went to help her turn them out.