It was a lovely evening, only cool enough to be comfortable for Oriana to be wrapped in her woollen shawl.  As the shadows of twilight darkened on the silent river, a spirit of sadness was with the party, that vague and painful melancholy that weighs upon the heart when happy ties are about to be sundered, and loved ones are about to part.  Arthur had brought his flute, and with an effort to throw off the feeling of gloom, he essayed a lively air; but it seemed like discord by association with their thoughts.  He ceased abruptly, and, at Oriana’s request, chose a more mournful theme.  When the last notes of the plaintive melody had been lost in the stillness of the night, there was an oppressive pause, only broken by the rustle of the little sail and the faint rippling of the wave.

“I seem to be sailing into the shadows of misfortune,” said Oriana, in a low, sad tone.  “I wish the moon would rise, for this darkness presses upon my heart like the fingers of a sorrowful destiny.  What a coward I am to-night!”

“A most obedient satellite,” replied Arthur.  “Look where she heralds her approach by spreading a misty glow on the brow of yonder hill.”

“We have left the shadows of misfortune behind us,” said Harold, as a flood of moonlight flashed over the river, seeming to dash a million of diamonds in the path of the gliding boat.

“Alas! the fickle orb!” murmured Oriana; “it rises but to mock us, and hides itself already in the bosom of that sable cloud.  Is there not a threat of rain there, Mr. Hare?”

“It looks unpromising, at the best,” said Harold; “I think it would be prudent to return.”

Suddenly, little Phil, who had been lying at ease, with his head against the thwarts, arose on his elbow and cried out: 

“Wha’dat?”

“What is what, Phil?” asked Oriana.  “Why, Phil, you have been dreaming,” she added, observing the lad’s confusion at having spoken so vehemently.

“Miss Orany, dar’s a boat out yonder.  I heard ’em pulling, sure.”

“Nonsense, Phil! you’ve been asleep.”

“By Gol!  I heard ’em, sure.  What a boat doing round here dis time o’ night?  Dem’s some niggers arter chickens, sure.”

And little Phil, satisfied that he had fathomed the mystery, lay down again in a fit of silent indignation.  The boat was put about, but the wind had died away, and the sail flapped idly against the mast.  Harold, glad of the opportunity for a little exercise, shipped the sculls and bent to his work.

“Miss Oriana, put her head for the bank if you please.  We shall have less current to pull against in-shore.”

The boat glided along under the shadow of the bank, and no sound was heard but the regular thugging and splashing of the oars and the voices of insects on the shore.  They approached a curve in the river where the bank was thickly wooded, and dense shrubbery projected over the stream.

“Wha’ dat?” shouted Phil again, starting up in the bow and peering into the darkness.  A boat shot out from the shadow of the foliage, and her course was checked directly in their path.  The movement was so sudden that, before Harold could check his headway, the two boats fouled.  A boathook was thrust into the thwarts; Arthur sprang to the bows to cast it off.