Haward rowed on, telling Audrey stories of the town, of great men whose names she knew, and beautiful ladies of whom she had never heard; and she sat before him with her slim brown hands folded in her lap and the rosebuds withering in her hair, while through the reeds and the grass and the bushes of the bank over against them strode Hugon in his Blenheim wig and his wine-colored coat.  Well-nigh together the three reached the stake driven in among the reeds, a hundred yards below the minister’s house.  Haward fastened the boat, and, motioning to Audrey to stay for the moment where she was, stepped out upon the bank to confront the trader, who, walking steadily and silently as ever, was almost upon them.

But it was broad daylight, and Hugon, with his forest instincts, preferred, when he wished to speak to the point, to speak in the dark.  He made no pause; only looked with his fierce black eyes at the quiet, insouciant, fine gentleman standing with folded arms between him and the boat; then passed on, going steadily up the creek toward the bend where the water left the open smiling fields and took to the forest.  He never looked back, but went like a hunter with his prey before him.  Presently the shadows of the forest touched him, and Audrey and Haward were left alone.

The latter laughed.  “If his courage is of the quality of his lace—­What, cowering, child, and the tears in your eyes!  You were braver when you were not so tall, in those mountain days.  Nay, no need to wet your shoe.”

He lifted her in his arms, and set her feet upon firm grass.  “How long since I carried you across a stream and up a dark hillside!” he said.  “And yet to-day it seems but yesternight!  Now, little maid, the Indian has run away, and the path to the house is clear.”

* * * * *

In his smoke-filled, untidy best room Darden sat at table, his drink beside him, his pipe between his fingers, and open before him a book of jests, propped by a tome of divinity.  His wife coming in from the kitchen, he burrowed in the litter upon the table until he found an open letter, which he flung toward her.  “The Commissary threatens again, damn him!” he said between smoke puffs.  “It seems that t’other night, when I was in my cups at the tavern, Le Neve and the fellow who has Ware Creek parish—­I forget his name—­must needs come riding by.  I was dicing with Paris.  Hugon held the stakes.  I dare say we kept not mum.  And out of pure brotherly love and charity, my good, kind gentlemen ride on to Williamsburgh on a tale-bearing errand!  Is that child never coming back, Deborah?”

“She’s coming now,” answered his wife, with her eyes upon the letter.  “I was watching from the upper window.  He rowed her up the creek himself.”

The door opened, and Audrey entered the room.  Darden turned heavily in his chair, and took the long pipe from between his teeth.  “Well?” he said.  “You gave him my letter?”