I felt my face harden to iron. It was I who
turned from her, and the faces before me swam in red. Up to that time
I had grasped only the fact that she was alive, that she stood there,
warm, beautiful, unscathed, that I could see her, touch her, hear the
strange rise and fall of her voice. But with the clinging of her
glance to mine I remembered more, and sweat poured out on my forehead.
She was my wife. I had forfeited the right to touch her hand.
The French began to murmur questions and she turned back toward them.
She stood close by my side with her hand in mine, and looked into the
faces, French and savage, that hemmed her round. I think she saw tears
in some eyes, for her voice suddenly faltered. She made a gesture of
courtesy and greeting.
"I escaped days ago when we were traveling," she said in her
slow-moving French, that all around might hear. "I made my way to the
Pottawatamie Islands. Onanguisse had called me daughter, and I knew
that if I could find his people I was safe."
The crowd breathed together in one exclamation. "You have not been in
this camp at all?"
I felt her draw closer to me. "No, I have not been in this camp. You
thought that I was here?" Her grasp on my hand tightened.
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