His mind, like his body, is a wreck, M'sieu
David. Years ago, after a great storm, St. Pierre found him in the
forest. A tree had fallen on him. St. Pierre carried him in on his
shoulders. He lived, but he has always been like that. St. Pierre
loves him, and poor Andre worships St. Pierre and follows him
about like a dog. His brain is gone. He does not know what his
name is, and we call him Andre. And always, day and night, he is
asking that same question, 'Has any one seen Black Roger
Audemard?' Sometime--if you will, M'sieu David--I should like to
have you tell me what it is so terrible that you know about Roger
Audemard."
The York boats were half-way across the river, and from them came
a sudden burst of wild song. David could make out six men in each
boat, their oars flashing in the morning sun to the rhythm of
their chant. Marie-Anne looked up at him suddenly, and in her face
and eyes he saw what the starry gloom of evening had half hidden
from him in those thrilling moments when they shot through the
rapids of the Holy Ghost. She was girl now. He did not think of
her as woman. He did not think of her as St. Pierre's wife. In
that upward glance of her eyes was something that thrilled him to
the depth of his soul.
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