They shifted slowly, taking in the cabin,
questing, seeking, searching for something which they could not
find. The lips moved, and again he heard that weird and mysterious
monotone, as if the plaintive voice of a child were coming out of
the huge frame of the man, crying out as it had cried last night,
"HAS-ANY-ONE-SEEN-BLACK-ROGER-AUDEMARD?"
In another moment St. Pierre's wife was at the deformed giant's
side. She seemed tall beside him. She put her hands to his head
and brushed back the grizzled black hair, laughing softly into his
upturned face, her eyes shining and a strange glow in her cheeks.
Carrigan, looking at them, felt his heart stand still. WAS THIS
MAN ST. PIERRE? The thought came like a lightning flash--and went
as quickly; it was impossible and inconceivable. And yet there was
something more than pity in the voice of the woman who was
speaking now.
"No, no, we have not seen him, Andre--we have not seen Black Roger
Audemard. If he comes, I will call you. I promise, Michiwan. I
will call you!"
She was stroking his bearded cheek, and then she put an arm about
his twisted shoulders, and slowly she turned so that in a moment
or two they were facing the sun--and it seemed to Carrigan that
she was talking and sobbing and laughing in the same breath, as
that great, broken hulk of a man moved out slowly from under the
caress of her arm and went on his way.
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