“And you would be Sir Constans’ heir!”

“Now, come, I say; that’s too bad.  You know I didn’t mean that.  Besides, I think I’m as much his heir as you now” (looking at his sinewy arm); “at least, he doesn’t listen as much to you.  I mean, the river runs into the gipsies’ country as straight as it can go.”

“Just so.”

“Well, you seem very cool about it!”

“I am not going down the river.”

“Then, where are you going?”

“On the Lake.”

“Whew!” (whistling) “Pooh!  Why, the Lake’s—­let me see, to Heron Bay it’s quite fifteen miles.  You can’t paddle across the land.”

“But I can put the canoe on a cart.”

“Aha! why didn’t you tell me before?”

“Because I did not wish anyone to know.  Don’t say anything.”

“Not I. But what on earth, or rather, on water, are you driving at?  Where are you going?  What’s the canoe for?”

“I am going a voyage.  But I will tell you all when it is ready.  Meantime, I rely on you to keep silence.  The rest think the boat is for the river.”

“I will not say a word.  But why did you not have a hide boat?”

“They are not strong enough.  They can’t stand knocking about.”

“If you want to go a voyage (where to, I can’t imagine), why not take a passage on board a ship?”

“I want to go my own way.  They will only go theirs.  Nor do I like the company.”

“Well, certainly the sailors are the roughest lot I know.  Still, that would not have hurt you.  You are rather dainty, Sir Felix!”

“My daintiness does not hurt you.”

“Can’t I speak?” (sharply)

“Please yourself.”

A silence.  A cuckoo sang in the forest, and was answered from a tree within the distant palisade.  Felix chopped away slowly and deliberately; he was not a good workman.  Oliver watched his progress with contempt; he could have put it into shape in half the time.  Felix could draw, and design; he could invent, but he was not a practical workman, to give speedy and accurate effect to his ideas.

“My opinion is,” said Oliver, “that that canoe will not float upright.  It’s one-sided.”

Felix, usually so self-controlled, could not refrain from casting his chisel down angrily.  But he picked it up again, and said nothing.  This silence had more influence upon Oliver, whose nature was very generous, than the bitterest retort.  He sat up on the sward.

“I will help launch it,” he said.  “We could manage it between us, if you don’t want a lot of the fellows down here.”

“Thank you.  I should like that best.”

“And I will help you with the cart when you start.”

Oliver rolled over on his back, and looked up idly at the white flecks of cloud sailing at a great height.

“Old Mouse is a wretch not to give me a command,” he said presently.

Felix looked round involuntarily, lest any one should have heard; Mouse was the nick-name for the Prince.  Like all who rule with irresponsible power, the Prince had spies everywhere.  He was not a cruel man, nor a benevolent, neither clever nor foolish, neither strong nor weak; simply an ordinary, a very ordinary being, who chanced to sit upon a throne because his ancestors did, and not from any personal superiority.