“Go?” he asked, just audibly.  “When?”

“To-morrow.”

“How?”

“I’ll tell you that then.”

“Why can’t you tell me now?”

“I could if I was sure you wouldn’t raise objections, but I know you will.”

“Then there are objections to be raised?”

“There are objections to everything.  There’s no plan of escape that won’t expose you to a good many risks.  I’d rather you didn’t see them in advance.”

“But isn’t it well to be prepared beforehand?”

“You’ll have plenty of time for preparation—­after you’ve started.  If that seems mysterious to you now, you’ll know what I mean by it when I come to-morrow.  I shall be here in the afternoon at six.”

With this information Ford was obliged to be content, spending a sleepless night and an impatient day, waiting for the time appointed.

She came punctually.  For the first time she was not followed by her dog.  The only change in her appearance he could see was a short skirt of rough material instead of her usual linen or muslin.

“Are we going through the woods?” he asked.

“Not far.  I shall take you by the trail that led to this spot before I built the cabin and made the path.”  As she spoke she surveyed him.  “You’ll do,” she smiled at last.  “In those flannels, and with your beard, no one would know you for the Norrie Ford of three weeks ago.”

It was easy for him to ascribe the glow in her eyes and the quiver in her voice to the excitement of the moment; for he could see that she had the spirit of adventure.  Perhaps it was to conceal some embarrassment under his regard that she spoke again, hurriedly.

“We’ve no time to lose.  You needn’t take anything from here.  We’d better start.”

He followed her over the threshold, and as she turned to lock the cabin he had time to throw a glance of farewell over the familiar hills, now transmuted into a haze of amethyst under the westering sun.  A second later he heard her quick “Come on!” as she struck into the barely perceptible path that led upward, around the shoulder of the mountain.

It was a stiff bit of climbing, but she sped along with the dryad-like ease she had displayed on the night when she led him to the cabin.  Beneath the primeval growth of ash and pine there was an underbrush so dense that no one but a creature gifted with the inherited instinct of the woods could have found the invisible, sinuous line alone possible to the feet.  But it was there, and she traced it—­never pausing never speaking, and only looking back from time to time to assure herself that he was in sight, until they reached the top of the dome-shaped hill.

They came out suddenly on a rocky terrace, beneath which, a mile below, Champlain was spread out in great part of its length, from the dim bluff of Crown Point to the far-away, cloud-like mountains of Canada.

“You can sit down a minute here,” she said, as he came up.