II

“You’ve been gone so long,” he shouted above the wind, “I thought something must have happened to you.”

But there was that in his tone, and a certain look in his face as well, that conveyed to me more than his usual words, and in a flash I understood the real reason for his coming.  It was because the spell of the place had entered his soul too, and he did not like being alone.

“River still rising,” he cried, pointing to the flood in the moonlight, “and the wind’s simply awful.”

He always said the same things, but it was the cry for companionship that gave the real importance to his words.

“Lucky,” I cried back, “our tent’s in the hollow.  I think it’ll hold all right.”  I added something about the difficulty of finding wood, in order to explain my absence, but the wind caught my words and flung them across the river, so that he did not hear, but just looked at me through the branches, nodding his head.

“Lucky if we get away without disaster!” he shouted, or words to that effect; and I remember feeling half angry with him for putting the thought into words, for it was exactly what I felt myself.  There was disaster impending somewhere, and the sense of presentiment lay unpleasantly upon me.

We went back to the fire and made a final blaze, poking it up with our feet.  We took a last look round.  But for the wind the heat would have been unpleasant.  I put this thought into words, and I remember my friend’s reply struck me oddly:  that he would rather have the heat, the ordinary July weather, than this “diabolical wind.”

Everything was snug for the night; the canoe lying turned over beside the tent, with both yellow paddles beneath her; the provision sack hanging from a willow-stem, and the washed-up dishes removed to a safe distance from the fire, all ready for the morning meal.

We smothered the embers of the fire with sand, and then turned in.  The flap of the tent door was up, and I saw the branches and the stars and the white moonlight.  The shaking willows and the heavy buffetings of the wind against our taut little house were the last things I remembered as sleep came down and covered all with its soft and delicious forgetfulness.

Suddenly I found myself lying awake, peering from my sandy mattress through the door of the tent.  I looked at my watch pinned against the canvas, and saw by the bright moonlight that it was past twelve o’clock—­the threshold of a new day—­and I had therefore slept a couple of hours.  The Swede was asleep still beside me; the wind howled as before; something plucked at my heart and made me feel afraid.  There was a sense of disturbance in my immediate neighborhood.

I sat up quickly and looked out.  The trees were swaying violently to and fro as the gusts smote them, but our little bit of green canvas lay snugly safe in the hollow, for the wind passed over it without meeting enough resistance to make it vicious.  The feeling of disquietude did not pass, however, and I crawled quietly out of the tent to see if our belongings were safe.  I moved carefully so as not to waken my companion.  A curious excitement was on me.