t sweeping through him a force mightier
than that of the night. Her hands were on his arm, as if she was afraid
of losing him in that pit of blackness; the soft cling of them was like
a contact through which came a warm thrill of electrical life. He put
out his arm and drew her to him, so that for a moment his face pressed
against the top of her wet little turban.

And then he heard her say: "There is a scow at the bayou, Jeems. It is
close to the end of the path. M'sieu Fingers has kept it there,
waiting, ready."

He had been thinking of Crossen's place and an open boat. He blessed
Fingers again, as he took Marette's hand in his own and started for the
trail that led through the poplar thicket.

Their feet slopped deep in wet and mud, and with the rain there was a
wind that took their breath away. It was impossible to see a tree an
arm's length away, and Kent hoped that the lightning would come
frequently enough to guide him. In the first flare of it he looked down
the slope that led riverward. Little rivulets of water were running
down it. Rocks and stumps were in their way, and underfoot it was
slippery. Marette's fingers were clinging to his again, as she had held
to them on the wild race up to Kedsty's bungalow from the barracks. He
had tingled then in the sheer joy of their thrill, but it was a
different thrill that stirred him now--an overwhelming emotion of
possessorship. This night, with its storm and its blackness, was the
most wonderful of all his nights.

He sensed nothing of its discomfort. It could not beat back the joyous
racing of the blood in his body. Sun and stars, day and night, sunshine
and cloud, were trivial and inconsequential to him now. For close to
him, struggling with him, fighting through the night with him, trusting
him, helpless without him, was the living, breathing thing he loved
more than he loved his own life. For many years, without knowing it, he
had waited for this night, and now that it was upon him, it inundated
and swept away his old life. He was no longer the huntsman, but the
hunted. He was no longer alone, but had a priceless thing to fight for,
a priceless and helpless thing that was clinging to his fingers in the
darkness. He did not feel like a fugitive, but as one who has come into
a great triumph. He sensed no uncertainty or doubt.

The river lay ahead, and for him the river had become the soul and the
promise of life. It was Marette's river and his river, and in a l