Even yet she could not distinguish her oarsman, except as a black bulk, for it had been a lowering night and the approaching dawn failed to break through the blanket of cloud that hung above the great valley.

He was a good boatman, however, as she gathered from the tireless regularity of his strokes.

He was a silent man, too, and she was grateful for that.

She snuggled down into her blanket and tried to sleep, but she only dozed for a minute, it seemed, to find her eyes fly wide open again.

So, restless and tired of her lonely vigil, she gave a premonitory cough, and said to her companion: "You must be tired rowing so steadily ?" "Oh, I don't mind it," he replied.
At the sound of his voice she sat bolt upright.