“Where are we going now, Bruce?  Not the way they went—­” and Betty glanced out into the black void where the keel boat had merged into the gloom.

“No, no—­but we can’t get the raft back up-stream against the current, so the best thing is to land at the Bates’ plantation below here; then as soon as you are able we can return to Belle Plain,” said Carrington.

There was an interval broken only by the occasional sweep of the great steering oar as Cavendish coaxed the raft out toward the channel.  The thought of Charley Norton’s murder rested on Carrington like a pall.  Scarcely a week had elapsed since he quitted Thicket Point and in that week the hand of death had dealt with them impartially, and to what end?  Then the miles he had traversed in his hopeless journey up-river translated themselves into a division of time as well as space.  They were just so much further removed from the past with its blight of tragic terror.  He turned and glanced at Betty.  He saw that her eyes held their steady look of wistful pity that was for the dead man; yet in spite of this, and in spite of the bounds beyond which he would not let his imagination carry him, the future enriched with sudden promise unfolded itself.  The deep sense of recovered hope stirred within him.  He knew there must come a day when he would dare to speak of his love, and she would listen.

“It’s best we should land at Bates’ place—­we can get teams there,” he went on to explain.  “And, Betty, wherever we go we’ll go together, dear.  Cavendish doesn’t look as if he had any very urgent business of his own, and I reckon the same is true of Yancy, so I am going to keep them with us.  There are some points to be cleared up when we reach Belle Plain—­some folks who’ll have a lot to explain or else quit this part of the state!  And I intend to see that you are not left alone until—­until I have the right to take care of you for good and all—­that’s what you want me to do one of these days, isn’t it, darling?” and his eyes, glowing and infinitely tender, dwelt on her upturned face.

But Betty shrank from him in involuntary agitation.

“Oh, not now, Bruce—­not now—­we mustn’t speak of that—­it’s wrong—­it’s wicked—­you mustn’t make me forget him!” she cried brokenly, in protest.

“Forgive me, Betty, I’ll not speak of it again,” he said.

“Wait, Bruce, and some time—­Oh, don’t make me say it,” she gasped, “or I shall hate myself!” for in his presence she was feeling the horror of her past experience grow strangely remote, only the dull ache of her memories remained, and to these she clung.  They were silent for a moment, then Carrington said: 

“After I’m sure you’ll be safe here perhaps I’ll go south into the Choctaw Purchase.  I’ve been thinking of that recently; but I’ll find my way back here—­don’t misunderstand me—­I’ll not come too soon for even you, Betty.  I loved Norton.  He was one of my best friends, too,” he continued gently.  “But you know—­and I know—­dear, the day will come when no matter where you are I shall find you again—­find you and not lose you!”