"Mary!" I groaned, "be careful! Be careful! It is not your pity I
want. If you forgive me for pity"----
I could not finish, for she gave a little sob. She turned to me. "It
is you who marry for pity," she cried, with her eyes brimming. "I
could not. I would not. And I have nothing to forgive; nothing,
nothing. I would not have had you do anything else. I was proud of
you. Oh, so proud, so proud! If you had done anything else I could
never have---- Monsieur, do you love me--a little?"
I took her in my arms. I held her close to me and looked into her
eyes. I looked deep into them and into the soul of her. I saw
understanding of me, acceptance of me as I was. I saw belief, heart
hunger, love.
And then I laid my lips on hers. She was my wife. She was the woman
God had made for me, the woman who had trusted me through more than
death, and who had come to me through blood and agony and tears. She
was my own, and I had her there alive. I took her to myself.
CHAPTER XXXIII
TO US AND TO OUR CHILDREN
Hours passed and the flap of Cadillac's tent was not lifted. Outside
in the camp the drum beat for sunset. The woman heard it. She pushed
back her soft waves of hair, and a shadow fell across the light that
had been in her eyes.
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