“Certainly not.  There is nothing for any of us to do, but just take things easy until night.”

“And then we are to go on, up the river?”

“Yes, unless, of course, something should occur during the day to change our plan.  Meanwhile Sam and I will take turns on guard, while you can remain undisturbed.”

She gave me her hand simply, without so much as a thought of any social difference between us, and I bowed low as I accepted it, equally oblivious.  Yet the realization came to her even as our fingers met, a sudden dash of red flaming into her cheeks, and her eyes falling before mine.

“Oh, I forgot!” she exclaimed, drawing away.  “It is so hard to remember.”

“I beg you not to try.  I have but one aim—­to serve you to the best of my ability.  Let me do it in my own way.”

“Your own way?”

“Yes, the way of a gentleman, the way of a friend.  You can look into my face now by daylight.  Please look; am I unworthy to be trusted?”

She did not answer at once, or even seem to hear my question, yet slowly her downcast eyes lifted, until she gazed frankly into my own.  Beneath the shading lashes they were wistful, pleading, yet steadfastly brave.

“I am at your mercy, Lieutenant Knox,” she said quietly.  “I must trust you—­and I do.  Yes, you may serve me in your own way.  We—­we cannot seem to play a part very well, either of us, so, perhaps, it will be easier just to be natural.”

I watched the two as they went down the steep bank together, and Sam helped her over the rail into the cockpit.  The narrow entrance leading into the cabin forward was to the right of the engine, and she disappeared through the sliding door without so much as glancing upward toward where I remained standing.  The negro left the door open, and returned slowly, clambering up the bank.

“’Cuse me, sah,” he said clumsily, as he paused before me, rubbing his head, his eyes wandering below.  “Did Ah hear right whut yer sed las’ night, ’bout how dat young woman was a nigger, a runaway frum Massa Kirby?  ’Pears like Ah don’t just seem fer ter git dat right in my head, sah.”

“That is the truth, Sam, although it appears quite as impossible to me as to you.  She is a natural lady, and worthy of all respect—­a beautiful girl, with no outward sign that she is not wholly white—­yet she has the blood of your race in her veins, and is legally a slave.”

“Lordy, an she nebber know’d it till just now?”

“No; I can only wonder at her meeting the truth as she does.  Perhaps I had better tell you the story—­it is very brief.  She is the illegitimate daughter of a son of the late Judge Beaucaire, and a slave mother known as Delia, a quadroon woman.  The boy disappeared years ago, before she was born, and is probably dead, and she has been brought up, and educated exactly as if she was the Judge’s own child.  She has never known otherwise, until those men came to the house the other night.”