Only the diseased thoughts in his brain had
made the happening in the creek anything but an accident. It was
all an accident, he told himself. Marie-Anne had asked him to
carry her across just as she would have asked any one of her
rivermen. It was his fault, and not hers, that he had slipped in
mid-stream, and that his arms had closed tighter about her, and
that her hair had brushed his face. He remembered she had laughed,
when it seemed for a moment that they were going to fall into the
stream together. Probably she would tell St. Pierre all about it.
Surely she would never guess it had been nearer tragedy than
comedy for him.
Once more he was convinced he had proved himself a weakling and a
fool. His business now was with St. Pierre, and the hour was at
hand when the game had ceased to be a woman's game. He had looked
ahead to this hour. He had prepared himself for it and had
promised himself action that would be both quick and decisive. And
yet, as he went on, his heart was still thumping unsteadily, and
in his arms and against his face remained still the sweet, warm
thrill of his contact with Marie-Anne. He could not drive that
from him.
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