But the canyon broke at last, and the craft emerged into the sunlight.  It was good to see the easy slope of the hills again, the spruce forests, and the forms of the wild creatures on the river bank, startled by their passing.  Noon came and passed, and for lunch they ate the last of the fudge.  And now a significant change was manifest in both of them.

Psychologists are ever astounded at the ability of mortals, men and animals, to become adjusted to any set of circumstances.  The wax of habit sets almost in a day.  The truth was, that in a certain measure with very definite and restricted limits, both Ben and Beatrice were becoming adjusted even to this amazing situation in which they found themselves.  This did not mean that Beatrice was in the least degree reconciled to it.  She had simply accepted it with the intention of making the best of it.  She had been abducted by an enemy of her father and was being carried down an unknown and dangerous river; but the element of surprise, the life of which is never but a moment, was already passing away.  Sometimes she caught herself with a distinct start, remembering everything with a rage and a bitter load on her heart; but the mood would pass quickly.

It is impossible, through any ordinary change of fortune, for a normal person to lose his sense of self-identity.  As long as that remains exterior conditions can make no vital change, or make him feel greatly different than he felt before.  The change from a peasant to a millionaire brings only a moment’s surprise, and then readjustment.  Beatrice was still herself; the man in the stern remained Ben Darby and no one else.  Very naturally she began to talk to him, and he to answer her.

The fact that they were bitter foes, one the victim of the other, did not decree they could not have friendly conversation, isolated as they were.  From time to time Ben pointed out objects of interest on the shore; and she found herself remarking, in a casual voice, about them.  And before the afternoon he had made her laugh, in spite of herself,—­a gay sound in which fear and distress had little echo.

“We’re bound to see a great deal of each other in the next few weeks,” he had said; and this fact could not be denied.  The sooner both became adjusted to it the better.  Actual fear of him she had none; she remembered only too well the steel in his eyes and the white flame on his cheeks as he had assured her of her safety.

In mid-afternoon Ben began to think of making his night’s camp.  From time to time the bank became an upright precipice where not even a tree could find foothold; and it had occurred to him, with sudden vividness, that he did not wish the darkness to overtake him in such a place.  The river rocks would make short work of him, in that case.  It was better to pick out a camp site in plenty of time lest they could not find one at the day’s end.

In one of the more quiet stretches of water he saw the place—­a small cove and a green, tree-clad bank, with the gorge rising behind.  Handling his canoe with greatest care he slanted toward it.  A moment later he had caught the brush at the water’s edge, stepped off into shallow water, and was drawing the canoe up onto the bank.