This was one of many nights we passed in the narrow confines of the boat during our flight northward.  Yet its incidents remain in memory with peculiar distinctness of detail.  I do not recall exactly how it occurred, but my duty during that first night chanced to place me at the after oar.  In consequence I sat directly facing Madame de Noyan, operating the rudder bar.  It was so warm, merely a delicate, fragrant breeze blowing from the south, she had felt no necessity for drawing up her hood, and the soft light of distant stars, glimmering along the bosom of the river, reflected back into her face, illumining it until I could almost note the changing expression within her dark eyes.

It was a sadder, graver face than the one I associated with her girlhood.  Yet I could scarce forbear an impression that it was now a sweeter one, more womanly, faint lines beginning to mark its satin smoothness with impress of sorrow.  To my thought a new, higher womanhood had found birth within, during weary days and nights of suspense and suffering.  It was yet torture to me constantly beholding these two together, but, as I observed her then, I thanked the good God who had permitted me to be near her in time of trial.  In patience I would serve, even though I must suffer.  Tears were clinging to her long lashes, and occasionally one would glitter an instant upon her white cheek, as she leaned her face upon one hand, from which the loose sleeve fell away, revealing an arm like chiselled marble.  She made no effort at concealing these evidences of emotion, doubtless believing them sufficiently hidden by the gloomy shadows.  Nor did she appear to glance at me, keeping her own gaze directly ahead, where the dark, swirling waters merged into the mystery of the North.

We were none of us in talkative mood—­although I heard De Noyan, behind me, humming a light French air, as though perfectly free from trouble—­and I have no recollection of exchanging a word for more than an hour.  We merely continued to pull sturdily against the downward rush of the stream, the deep silence of the night broken only by the dripping of uplifted blades, or the occasional far-off hooting of an owl upon the bank to our left.  The pressure of the river’s current was scarcely perceptible close against the shore, so we made fair progress.  Yet it was hard work, neither of us being accustomed to such exercise, the heavy oars feeling awkward to the hand.  The grim uncertainty of the future, coupled with our solitary surroundings, exercised a depressing influence upon the spirits of each, although differing widely in degree, according to our several natures.  Undoubtedly this same sense of dreariness led De Noyan to sing, caused me such painful restlessness under that same singing, and left Eloise saddened in her lonely thoughts.