"Mademoiselle, I may, as you say, have
tidy, circumscribed France behind my thought, but---- Well,
mademoiselle, I was brought up to certain observances in regard to a
woman. And I cannot forget you are a woman. When the men speak
roughly to you I put my hand on my sword."
"I have seen you, monsieur."
"And so I lose much thought and time conquering my anger. It fills my
thought. When I taught you Indian verbs the other day the rain dripped
from your hair. And I sat like a clod. What could I do? I could not
shelter you for fear of rousing suspicion in the men. Mademoiselle, I
cannot stand it. I must let the men know that you are a woman. And
then I must marry you when we reach Father Nouvel."
She rose. "Monsieur, you must send me back to Montreal."
I kept my seat. "Mademoiselle, I have your word," I reminded. "You
agreed to listen."
I had meant to plead, not to rebuke, and I regretted that she flushed.
She seated herself lingeringly, but I saw that she leaned back, and did
not sit as she had done before with her muscles braced for flight.
"Why not send me back to Montreal?" she begged.
The embers of the fire fell into irregular, rectangular shapes like the
stone buildings on the Marne, where I was born.
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