He sensed rather than felt the swift movement of the canoe. There
was no perceptible tremor to its progress. The current and a
perfect craftsmanship with the paddles were carrying it along at
six or seven miles an hour. He heard the rippling of water that at
times was almost like the tinkling of tiny bells, and more and
more bell-like became that sound as he listened to it. It struck a
certain note for him. And to that note another added itself, until
in the purling rhythm of the river he caught the murmuring
monotone of a name Boulain--Boulain--Boulain. The name became an
obsession. It meant something. And he knew what it meant--if he
could only whip his memory back into harness again. But that was
impossible now. When he tried to concentrate his mental faculties,
his head ached terrifically.
He dipped his hand into the water and held it over his eyes. For
half an hour after that he did not raise his head. In that time
not a word was spoken by Bateese or Jeanne Marie-Anne Boulain. For
the forest people it was not an hour in which to talk. The moon
had risen swiftly, and the stars were out. Where there had been
gloom, the world was now a flood of gold and silver light.
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