"'Tis thyself, Margaret," I answered. "Thou art the one of whom I speak," and I bent forward to look into her face. But she had drawn herself up, as her eye caught sight of the silent Indian maid behind me, who with keen gaze followed her every movement. "Enough," she replied coldly. "I did not angle for a compliment," and she turned her head aside as though to end the conversation. "Thou art tired," I said. "Let me wrap thy robe about thee, and thou shalt rest in the bow of the canoe." "I am not tired," she replied, "and I would prefer to sit and watch the changing river as we glide along." But I insisted upon her taking some rest, and she finally consented; for though she would not acknowledge it, she was plainly tired. Long I sat in the center of the canoe. The Indian girl had relinquished her paddle, and was now slumbering behind me. Only the tireless Manteo urged the boat through the water, his steady strokes unflagging as hour after hour passed. I sat opposite him until after midnight. Then despite his protest I took the paddle from his hands, and bidding him snatch some sleep, I took his post and with my sound arm made shift to paddle the canoe. So I sat until the dawn crept slowly above the trees. My lady was up early, and with a light song upon her lips, chided me for sitting up till day. She was like a little merry-hearted child this morning, as she ran to and fro upon the boat. I had seen her often and in many moods--as the stately lady of fashion in silks and satins; as the plain simple maid, dimpled with smiles, going for her walk in the city of London; had seen her as she archly tossed her head at some nicely-turned compliment; had seen her in tears, as on the night when she visited me in London--but I had never seen her half so lovely as now. Even the silent Manteo brightened up under the spell of my lady's good humor--only Winona seemed moody and ill at ease. And so passed long, happy days for me, as we floated down the river. I cared not to return to the world again, for me it meant to lose Margaret, and perhaps my head. It was hard, Heaven knows, to sit and watch her face; to listen to the sound of her sweet, low voice, and to keep down the great wave of love for her that welled up in my heart; to speak no word of all those tender ones, that it seemed impossible to suppress. But I fought against my love like a man, for she was Bobby's, the finest gentleman I had ever known and my best friend. Moreover she was in my hands, and I would fulfill my trust; I would take no advantage of her position to pour my love into her unwilling ears. She should go back to England and Bobby, and forget me. Once when I mentioned Bobby's name, I had seen a blush upon her cheek, and I thought her blue eye grew softer; the demon of jealously arose in my breast, and I mentioned his name no more. Turning to her, I said: "Lady Margaret, wouldst thou grant me one favor?"