“You’ll keep to the middle of the lake and go on steadily.  You’ll have all Champlain to yourself to-night, and in daylight there’s no reason why you shouldn’t pass for an ordinary sportsman.  All the same, you had better rest by day, and go on again in the evening.  You’ll find lots of little secluded coves where you can pull up the canoe and be quite undisturbed.  I’d do that, if I were you.”

He nodded to show that he understood her.

“When you look at the map,” she went on, “you’ll find that I’ve traced a route for you, after you get above Plattsville.  You’ll see that it will take you past the little French-Canadian village of Deux Etoiles.  You can’t mistake it, because there’s a lighthouse, with a revolving light, on a rock, just off the shore.  You’ll be in Canada then.  You’d better time yourself to go by about nightfall.”

He nodded his agreement with her again, and she continued.

“About a mile above the lighthouse, and close in by the eastern shore, just where the lake becomes very narrow, there are two little islands lying close together.  You’ll take them as a landmark, because immediately opposite them, on the mainland, there’s a stretch of forest running for a good many miles.  There you can land finally.  You must drag the canoe right up into the wood, and hide it as well as you can.  It’s my own canoe, so that it can lie there till it drops to pieces.  Is all that quite clear to you?”

Once more he nodded, not trusting himself to speak.  Again the sight of his emotion braced her to make her tone more matter-of-fact than ever.

“Now, then,” she went on, “if you consult the map you’ll see that an old wood-road runs through the forest, and comes out at the station of Saint Jean du Clou Noir.  There you can get a train to Quebec....  The road begins nearly opposite the two little islands I spoke of....  I don’t think you’ll have any difficulty in finding it....  It’s about seven miles to the station....  You could walk that easily enough through the night....  I’ve marked a very good train on the time-table—­a train that stops at Saint Jean du Clou Noir at seven thirty-five ...”

A choking sensation warned her to stop, but she retained the power to smile.  The sun had set, and the slow northern night was beginning to close in.  Across the lake the mountains of Vermont were receding into deep purple uniformity, while over the crimson of the west a veil of filmy black was falling, as though dropped in mid-flight by the angel of the dark.  Here and there through the dead-turquoise green of the sky one could detect the pale glimmer of a star.

“You must go now,” she whispered.  He began to move the canoe into the water.

“I haven’t thanked you,” he began, unsteadily, holding the canoe by the bow, “because you wouldn’t let me.  As a matter of fact, I don’t know how to do it—­adequately.  But if I live at all, my life will belong to you.  That’s all I can say.  My life will be a thing for you to dispose of.  If you ever have need of it—­”