It was a joyous, thrilling thing, this black night with the storm over their heads and the roll of the great river under them--they two--alone--in this cockleshell cabin that was not high enough to stand in and scarcely big enough in any direction to turn round in.

The snug cheer of it, the warmth of the fire beginning to reach their chilled bodies, and the inspiring crackle of the birch in the little stove filled Kent, for a space, with other thoughts than those of the world they were leaving.

And Marette, whose eyes and lips were smiling at him softly in the candle-glow, seemed also to have forgotten.

It was the little window that brought them back to the tragedy of their flight.

Kent visioned it as it must look from the shore--a telltale blotch of light traveling through the darkness.