The wind blew her hair wildly in a long, streaming veil
across her forehead, down her cheek, out over her shoulder. She was
beautiful with the joy that was hers at last.
Hugh stepped in and stood to push the boat out from the shore. His
eyes never left hers. It was a deep, long look of which her soul
drank, quenching its thirst. Very slowly the boat moved; then it
turned. A hand seemed to grip it's prow. There was a mighty, confused
roaring in their ears; the bank seemed to be snatched back from them.
The sunlight, shone into Hugh's face. Suddenly he caught at his oar.
"The river is not so high," he shouted; "the flood's going down."
He looked away from her and back. "We have--just a chance. We'll leave
it to the river. It may be the end of you and me--or, Bella, it may
be the beginning."
He steadied the boat with all his skill. It was drawn with frightful
swiftness down the swollen stream.
* * * * *
Before noon Sylvie and Pete moved slowly across the open space and
went back along their forest trail. They walked like lovers, and
Sylvie's arm helped to support him. Just before he stepped in among
the trees he turned for a long, desolate, backward look.
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