We are young. We may live many years. Oh,
monsieur, I have not the courage!"
I piled the wood on the fire and did not answer. I stirred the red
coals and marked how the flames slipped along the dried branches in
festoons of light. Pierre was snoring, and I kicked him till he rolled
over and swore in bastard French. Then I went to the woman.
"You have won," I said, and I laughed a little,--a mean, harsh laugh,
my ears told me, not the laugh of a gentleman. "Mademoiselle, you have
won. We start toward Montreal tomorrow. Then marry--whom you will."
She looked into my eyes. "Wait a moment;" she stopped. "Monsieur, how
much time have you spent in learning the Indian dialects and preparing
for this expedition?"
"Two years."
"And next year will indeed be too late?"
I shrugged my shoulders. "We waste good hours," I suggested.
"Mademoiselle, may I say 'good-night'?"
She stepped toward me. "Monsieur, do not spoil your courtesy," she
begged. "I asked you a question."
I smiled at her. "The answer has lost pith and meaning. Yes,
mademoiselle, next year will indeed be too late."
She put her hands before her eyes. "Then I will change my answer.
Monsieur, I will marry you when we reach Father Nouvel.
Pages:
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142