A Passionate Pilgrim, shall we say? Believe me, it is in the light of a
pilgrimage that I regard this--er--jaunt. Shall we dedicate it to
youth, and name it Childe Arthur's Pilgrimage?"
By this time smoke was issuing in a steady stream from the stove-pipe
above the cabin-top, and presently from within came the hiss and
fragrance of bacon frying. Sam Bossom had stepped ashore, and called to
the children to help in collecting sticks and build a fire for the
tea-kettle. Tilda, used though she was to nomad life, had never known
so delightful a picnic. Only her eyes wandered back apprehensively, now
and then, to the smoke of the great town. As for Arthur Miles--Childe
Arthur, as Mr. Mortimer henceforth insisted on their calling him--he had
apparently cast away all dread of pursuit. Once, inhaling the smell of
the wood fire, he even laughed aloud--a strange laugh, and at its close
uncannily like a sob. Tilda, watching him quietly, observed that he
trembled too--trembled all over--from time to time. She observed, too,
that this happened when he looked up from the fire and the kettle; but
also that in looking up he never once looked back, that his eyes always
wandered along the still waterway and to the horizon ahead.
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