He passed between the men, and
to a man their faces turned on him, and in their quiet and
watchful eyes he saw again that warning and suspicion, the
unspoken threat of what would happen if he forgot his promise to
Marie-Anne Boulain. Never, in a single outfit, had he seen such
splendid men. They were not a mongrel assortment of the lower
country. Slim, tall, clean-cut, sinewy--they were stock of the old
voyageurs of a hundred years ago, and all of them were young. The
older men had gone to St. Pierre. The reason for this dawned upon
Carrigan. Not one of these twelve but could beat him in a race
through the forest; not one that could not outrun him and cut him
off though he had hours the start!
Passing beyond them, he paused and looked back at the bateau. On
the forward deck stood Marie-Anne, and she, too, was looking at
him now. Even at that distance he saw that her face was quiet and
troubled with anxiety. She did not smile when he lifted his hat to
her, but gave only a little nod. Then he turned and buried himself
in the green balsams that grew within fifty paces of the river.
The old joy of life leaped into him as his feet crushed in the
soft moss of the shaded places where the sun did not break
through.
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