And then she bent over me and whispered, "Monsieur, monsieur, you are
unhurt!" Her voice had all its old inflections, and I rose and looked
at her in wonder. Yes, she was alive. She was grave-eyed and haggard,
but she was alive. The hands that I held were warm and trembling,
though my own were cold and leaden as my palsied tongue. She was
dressed in skins, and I could see the brown hollow in her throat. I
could not speak. I laid my lips upon her hand and trembled.
French and savages pressed around us in a gaping, silent ring.
Cadillac had given us the moment together, but he edged nearer,
bewildered by my silence.
"Madame, we welcome you," he cried. "Your husband has not been like
himself since he heard of your danger. Give him time to recover. We
have been a camp of mourning for you. Tell us of your escape."
And then I spoke. I drew her hand through my arm and turned her to
face the crowd. "They are your friends, madame," I said, as if it were
the conclusion of a long talk between us. "Thank them, and tell them
of your escape."
But she halted and turned again to me. She looked up with her face
close to mine, and for the first time she met my eyes fully. We stood
so a moment, and as she stood she flushed under what was in my look; a
wave of deepening pink crept slowly up through her brown pallor, but
she did not look away.
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