father," I cried earnestly. "I wish that I might requite your trust
with greater candor. But, in the end, I hope to justify my means. I
would that I might have your blessing on my mission and my cargo."

Blockhead that I was, not to have let well enough alone. For I was to
blame for what followed. I may have grown unconsciously rhetorical,
and waved my hand in the direction of the canoes. I do not know. I do
know that at the word "cargo" Father Carheil turned and looked toward
the shore. There, in my canoe, with gaze searching the timber where I
had disappeared, stood a figure,--a woman's figure in Singing Arrow's
dress and blanket.

Father Carheil looked at me. He did not speak; it was not necessary.
I endured his gaze for a moment, then sold my prudence to save my
honor. I laid my finger on the priest's arm.

"Come with me to the canoes," I demanded. "If you find yourself in the
wrong, it may teach you to trust a man's word against your own
eyesight."

He assented. We walked swiftly across the moon-lighted open, and I had
scant time for fear. Yet I was afraid. I could give the Englishman no
helping hand, no word of warning. Would he rise to the moment?

He did. He turned his back upon us, Indian-fashion, and squatted in
his blanket. He lost all suggestion of Singing Arrow's slim
elasticity, and sat in a shapeless huddle. I laughed with relief.

"Where is Singing Arrow now?" I twitted the priest. "Is this she?"