Adam thought of her when she was not on the lookout.  He also thought of her tidying things about the camp in the morning, and singing as he pulled from the bay.  Perhaps she was on another sort of lookout then.

“I’ll go in presently,” he muttered.

“Beg pardon?” said Louis Satanette, bending forward, and giving the upward inflection to that graceful Canadian phrase which asks a repetition while implying that the fault is with the hearer.

“I said I’d go in presently.  There’s no hurry.”

“Allow me to take you in,” said Louis.  “You have approached too close to the altars of the sylvan gods, and their sacrificial smoke has overcome you.  Don’t you see it rising everywhere from the woods?”

“The sylvan gods are none of my clan,” remarked Adam, shifting his position impatiently, “and it’s little I know of them.  There’s a graat dail of ignorance consailed aboot my pairson.”

Louis Satanette laughed with enjoyment: 

“Well, au revoir.  I will put up my sail when I turn the points.  It will be a long run up the lakes, with this haze hanging and not wind enough to lift it.”

“Good-day to ye,” responded Adam.  “We’ll likely shift camp before you’re this way.”

“In so short a time?” exclaimed Louis.

“In so lang a time.  I’m soul-sick of it.  It’s lone; it’s heavy.  The fine’s too great for the pleasure of the feight.  Look, now,—­there were two rough laddies up Glazka way, in my country, and they came to fists aboot a sweethairt, the fools.  But when they are stripped and ready, one hits the table wi’s hond, and says he, ‘Ay, Georgie, I’m wullin’ to feight ye, but wha’s goin’ to pay the fine?’”

Louis Satanette laughed again, but as if he did not know just what was meant.”

“It’s a cautious mon, is the Scotchmon,” said Adam, “but no’ so slow, after all.”

“Oh, never slow!” said Louis.  “Very, very fast indeed, to leave this paradise in the midst of the summer.”

“‘Farewell to lovely Loch Achray,’” sighed Adam: 
    “Where shall we find, in any land,
    So lone a lake, so sweet a strand?”

Louis made a sign of adieu and dipped his oars.

“It’s only au revoir,” said he, shooting past.  “Be very, very far from parting with Magog too early.”

“‘So lone a lake, so sweet a strand,’” repeated Adam, dropping his head back against the stern.

He did not move while the sound of the other’s oars died away behind him.  He did not move while the afternoon shadows spread far over the water.

The long Canadian twilight advanced stage by stage.  First, all Magog flushed, as if a repetition of the old miracle had turned it to wine.  Then innumerable night-hawks uttered their four musical notes in endless succession, upon the heights, down in the woods, from the mainland mountain.  The north star became discernible almost overhead.  Then, with slow and irregular strokes, Adam pulled away from the cliff, and brought his keel to grate the sand in front of his tent.