He sensed rather than felt the swift movement of the canoe.  There was no perceptible tremor to its progress.  The current and a perfect craftsmanship with the paddles were carrying it along at six or seven miles an hour.  He heard the rippling of water that at times was almost like the tinkling of tiny bells, and more and more bell-like became that sound as he listened to it.  It struck a certain note for him.  And to that note another added itself, until in the purling rhythm of the river he caught the murmuring monotone of a name Boulain—­Boulain—­Boulain.  The name became an obsession.  It meant something.  And he knew what it meant—­if he could only whip his memory back into harness again.  But that was impossible now.  When he tried to concentrate his mental faculties, his head ached terrifically.

He dipped his hand into the water and held it over his eyes.  For half an hour after that he did not raise his head.  In that time not a word was spoken by Bateese or Jeanne Marie-Anne Boulain.  For the forest people it was not an hour in which to talk.  The moon had risen swiftly, and the stars were out.  Where there had been gloom, the world was now a flood of gold and silver light.  At first Carrigan allowed this to filter between his fingers; then he opened his eyes.  He felt more evenly balanced again.

Straight in front of him was Jeanne Marie-Anne Boulain.  The curtain of dusk had risen from between them, and she was full in the radiance of the moon.  She was no longer paddling, but was looking straight ahead.  To Cardigan her figure was exquisitely girlish as he saw it now.  She was bareheaded, as he had seen tier first, and her hair hung down her back like a shimmering mass of velvety sable in the star-and-moon glow.  Something told Carrigan she was going to turn her face in his direction, and he dropped his hand over his eyes again, leaving a space between the fingers.  He was right in his guess.  She fronted the moon, looking at him closely—­rather anxiously, he thought.  She even leaned a little toward him that she might see more clearly.  Then she turned and resumed her paddling.

Carrigan was a bit elated.  Probably she had looked at him a number of times like that during the past half-hour.  And she was disturbed.  She was worrying about him.  The thought of being a murderess was beginning to frighten her.  In spite of the beauty of her eyes and hair and the slim witchery of her body he had no sympathy for her.  He told himself that he would give a year of his life to have her down at Barracks this minute.  He would never forget that three-quarters of an hour behind the rock, not if he lived to be a hundred.  And if he did live, she was going to pay, even if she was lovelier than Venus and all the Graces combined.  He felt irritated with himself that he should have observed in such a silly way the sable glow of her hair in the moonlight.  And her eyes.  What the deuce did prettiness matter in the present situation?  The sister of Fanchet, the mail robber, was beautiful, but her beauty had failed to save Fanchet.  The Law had taken him in spite of the tears in Carmin Fanchet’s big black eyes, and in that particular instance he was the Law.  And Carmin Fanchet was pretty—­deucedly pretty.  Even the Old Man’s heart had been stirred by her loveliness.