"You can trust him, all right." The oarsman clambered in and adjusted his sweeps, then Stark laid a hand on the prow and shoved the light boat out into the current, calling softly: "Good-bye, and good-luck." "Good-bye, Mr.Stark.Thank you ever so much," the girl replied, too numb and worn out to say much, or to notice or care whither she was bound or who was her boatman.

She had been swept along too swiftly to reason or fear for herself any more.
Half an hour later the scattered lights of the little camp winked and twinkled for the last time.

Turning, she set her face forward, and, adjusting the cushions to her comfort, strained her tired eyes towards the rising and falling shadow of her boatman.

She seemed borne along on a mystic river of gloom that hissed and gurgled about her, invisible but all-pervading, irresistible, monstrous, only the ceaseless, monotonous creak of the rowlocks breaking the silence.
Stark did not return to his cabin, but went back instead to his saloon, where he saw Poleon Doret still sprawling with elbows on the table, his hat pulled low above his sullen face.

The owner of the place passed behind the bar and poured himself a full glass of whiskey, which he tossed off, then, without a look to right or left, went out and down towards the barracks.