“We can see them from the top of the rock ridge,” he said.  “I am sure there are two.  Will you look for yourself?”

She did not speak as they hurried to the bald cap of the ridge.  From the top Philip pointed down the lake.  The two canoes were in plain view now.  Whether they contained three or four people they could not quite make out.  At sight of them the last vestige of colour had left the girl’s cheeks.  But now, as she stood there breathing quickly in her excitement, there came a change in her.  She threw back her head.  Her lips parted.  Her blue eyes flashed a fire in which Philip in his amazement no longer saw fear, but defiance.  Her hands were clenched.  She seemed taller.  Back into her cheeks there burned swiftly two points of flame.  All at once she put out a hand and drew him back, so that the cap of the ridge concealed them from the lake.

“An hour ago those canoes would have made me run off into the forest—­and hide,” she said.  “But now I am not afraid!  Do you understand?”

“Then you trust me?”

“Absolutely.”

“But—­surely—­there is something that you should tell me:  Who they are, what your danger is, what I am to do.”

“I am hoping that I am mistaken,” she replied.  “They may not be those whom I am dreading—­and expecting.  All I can tell you is this:  You are Paul Darcambal.  I am Josephine, your wife.  Protect me as a wife.  I will be constantly at your side.  Were I alone I would know what to expect.  But—­with you—­they may not offer me harm.  If they do not, show no suspicion.  But be watchful.  Don’t let them get behind you.  And be ready always—­always—­to use that—­if a thing so terrible must be done!” As she spoke she lay a hand on his pistol.  “And remember:  I am your wife!”

“To live that belief, even in a dream, will be a joy as unforgettable as life itself,” he whispered, so low that, in turning her head, she made as if she had not heard him.

“Come,” she said.  “Let us follow the coulee down to the lake.  We can watch them from among the rocks.”

She gave him her hand as they began to traverse the boulder-strewn bed of the creek.  Suddenly he said: 

“You will not suspect me of cowardice if I suggest that there is not one chance in a hundred of them discovering us?”

“No,” she replied, with a glance so filled with her confidence and faith that involuntarily he held her hand closer in his own.  “But I want them to find us—­if they are whom I fear.  We will show ourselves on the shore.”

He looked at her in amazement before the significance of her words had dawned upon him.  Then he laughed.

“That is the greatest proof of your faith you have given me,” he said.  “With me you are anxious to face your enemies.  And I am as anxious to meet them.”

“Don’t misunderstand me,” she corrected him quickly.  “I am praying that they are not the ones I suspect.  But if they are—­why, yes, I want to face them—­with you.”