Often as I have tried, I can never quite remember.
I am not sure that I heard her whisper. But I think that I did. She
quivered under my touch, but she did not draw away, and so we stood for
a moment, while my hand wandered where it had gone in dreams and rested
on her hair. "Mary!" I whispered, and once more we let the silence lie
like a pledge between us.
But in the moment of silence I heard again what I had forgotten,--the
roar of the camp outside. It seemed louder than it had been, and it
claimed my thought. I checked my breath to listen, holding the woman's
hand in mine. And while we listened, Cadillac's loud step and cheerful
voice came down the passage. The woman drew her hand away, and I let
her go. I let her go as if I were ashamed. I have cursed myself for
that ever since.
Cadillac stopped. "Are you there, Montlivet?" he called. "When you
are at leisure, come to my room." I heard his step retreat.
And then I turned to the woman. But with Cadillac's voice a change had
come. My mind was again heavy with anxiety. I remembered the
thronging Indians without, the pressing responsibilities within. I
remembered the volcano under us. For the moment I could not think of
my personal claims on the woman.
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