They were far down the river now, the breeze had freshened, the current ran smooth and fast. All sound but the sound of water and wind and trees had died away. Andrew trailed his hand over the side and drew it up, dripping. His mind was quieting gradually. Already the furious scene in which, such a short time ago, he had taken such active part seemed unreal as a stage-play. Yet it had been real. He had passed through just such a painted and bedizened adventure as he had always envied and wished against hope might be his own, when he was a little boy playing under a table, listening to the ship-captains and soldiers tell their sparse, enthralling tales. He had broken a prison--he had killed a man--even now he was running away from death in a leaky pleasure-boat, perhaps to be wrecked on an island like Robinson Crusoe's, perhaps merely to drown. Yet it did not seem to him that this adventure was his, as the adventure in the tales had been his while he listened to them. Now he knew why those tales had been so sparse and crudely-fashioned. When you were living a tale you did not have time to color it as it should be colored--your mind stuck on odd useless trifles--the teeth of a man you struck--the feel of an iron bar--the shape of a sail against the stars. Besides, in life, you were hungry and thirsty and had to make water--things which did not happen in a tale, or if they did, assumed heroic-proportions. He felt betrayed, somehow, as he thought of this. Even he should have a trace at least of attractive venturesomeness upon him now, but if it were there, he could not see or feel it. The thought of the long, baking voyage still ahead of them brought no flavor of romance with it, no smell of strange flowers. It would be hot and irksome and dangerous, and he would be very glad when it was done. Something splashed overside--Caterina was bailing the boat. He sighed and started to help her. After a while she stopped, but he went on. "Tired, Caterina?" he said, in a pause. "No--yes--but it does not matter," she said, with face half turned. She shut her eyes for an instant--the moon laid a silver penny on each closed lid. He stared at her face. Then she started to bail again, and the slight charm was broken. She gave a little sigh after a moment. "I think they hit me, after all," she said in a commonplace voice. He crawled over to her, anguished suddenly. "Where is it?" he said. "There--ah"--his fingers touched something sticky and warm. On her left side her dress was soaked--blood or water?--he could not tell. "Do you hear, Sebastian? She's hurt," he said, in a sharp, angry voice. The dark figure at the tiller moved uneasily, the boat shifted, spray blew in Andrew's face. "Is it deep, Caterina?" "No, no--only a flesh wound--nothing--" But her voice seemed changed. "See, when I put my hand on it--it stops the blood."