After that he would fly to his canoe and escape. A little later, perhaps
that very night if fate played the game well for him, he would return
for Marion. And yet, as he went over and over his scheme, whipping
himself into caution--into cool deliberation--there burned in his blood
a fire that once or twice made him set his teeth hard, a fire that
defied extinction, that smoldered only to await the breath that would
fan it into a fierce blaze. It was the fire that had urged him into the
rescue at the whipping-post, that had sent him single-handed to invade
the king's castle, that had hurled him into the hopeless battle upon the
shore. He swore at himself softly, laughingly, as he paddled steadily
toward Beaver Island.
The sun mounted straight and hot over his head; he paddled more slowly,
and rested more frequently, as it descended into the west, but it still
lacked two hours of sinking behind the island forest when the white
water-run of the shore came within his vision. He had meant to hold off
the coast until the approach of evening but changed his mind and landed,
concealing his canoe in a spot which he marked well, for he knew it
would soon be useful to him again. Deep shadows were already gathering
in the forest and through these Nathaniel made his way slowly in the
direction of St. James. Between him and the town lay Marion's home and
the path that led to Obadiah's. Once more the spirit of impatience, of
action, stirred within him. Would Marion go first to her home?
Involuntarily he changed his course so that it would bring him to the
clearing.
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