"I am
sorry. I am sorry. I am sorry," I heard myself repeating, explaining
to him, and to myself, and, mostly, to the God who judges us. I looked
at the wonderful mobile old face, with all its weakness, and all its
wonderful white goodness, and hated myself for laying hands of violence
on such a man. "I am sorry," I cried again. I looked at the spit of
land that separated us from the camp, and the light from the fires
glowed red above it. The din of dogs and men swelled high. Something
was happening. I glanced down at the priest, but turned away quickly,
for I had no stomach for what I had done.
"They will find you soon," I said, with my throat tightening. "God
knows I'm sorry."
Then I dashed to the canoes. "Quickly!" I cried, and I shoved the
Englishman down behind me, that I might not have to see even the glint
of his red blanket to anger me by thought of what I had sacrificed.
In a moment, our paddles were dipping. I looked back at the
settlement. "It is done!" I cried under my breath, and I could not
forbid a moment of exultation. I glanced at the Englishman.
But I met no exultation there. The man's strange eyes were still
grave. "No, monsieur, it is just begun," he corrected, and I thought,
as I saw his look at the retreating shore, that he shrunk from the
uncertainties ahead more than from the death behind.
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