He did not hear her reply; but a fresh burst of the wind sent a loose strand of her hair back into his face, and he was happy.  Happy in spite of a peril which neither he nor Jean would have thought of facing alone.  In the darkness he could no longer see Croisset or his canoe.  But Jean’s shout came back to him every minute on the wind, and over Josephine’s head he answered.  He was glad that it was so dark the girl could not see what was ahead of them now.  Once or twice his own breath stopped short, when it seemed that the canoe had taken the fatal plunge which he was dreading.  Every minute he figured the distance from the shore, and his chances of swimming it if they were overturned.  And then, after a long time, there came a sudden lull in the wind, and the seas grew less rough.  Jean’s voice came from near them, filled with a thrill of relief.

“We are behind the point,” he shouted.  “Another mile and we will enter the Snowbird, M’sieur!”

Philip leaned forward in the gloom.  Josephine’s cap had fallen off, and for a moment his hand rested on her wet and wind-blown hair.

“Did you hear that?” he cried.  “We’re almost home.”

“Yes,” she shivered.  “And I’m glad—­glad—­”

Was it an illusion of his own, or did she seem to shiver and draw away from him at the touch of his hand?  Even in the blackness he could feel that she was huddled forward, her face in her hands.  She did not speak to him again.  When they entered the smooth water of the Snowbird, Jean’s canoe drew close in beside them, but not a word fell from Croisset.  Like shadows they moved up the stream between two black walls of forest.  A steadily increasing excitement, a feeling that he was upon the eve of strange events, grew stronger in Philip.  His arms and back ached, his legs were cramped, the last of his splendid strength had been called upon in the fight with wind and seas, but he forgot this exhaustion in anticipation of the hour that was drawing near.  He knew that Adare House would reveal to him things which Josephine had not told him.  She had said that it would, and that he would hate her then.  That they were burying themselves deeper into the forest he guessed by the lessening of the wind.

Half an hour passed, and in that time his companion did not move or speak.  He heard faintly a distant wailing cry.  He recognized the sound.  It was not a wolf-cry, but the howl of a husky.  He fancied then that the girl moved, that she was gripping the sides of the canoe with her hands.  For fifteen minutes more there was not a sound but the dip of the paddles and the monotone of the wind sweeping through the forest tops.  Then the dog howled again, much nearer; and this time he was joined by a second, a third, and a fourth, until the night was filled with a din that made Philip stare wonderingly off into the blackness.  There were fifty dogs if there was one in that yelping, howling horde, he told himself, and they were coming with the swiftness of the wind in their direction.