It would never completely go. As long as he lived, what
had happened in the creek would live with him. He did not deny
that crying voice inside him. It was easy for his mouth to make
words. He could call himself a fool and a weakling, but those
words were purely mechanical, hollow, meaningless. The truth
remained. It was a blazing fire in his breast, a conflagration
that might easily get the best of him, a thing which he must fight
and triumph over for his own salvation. He did not think of danger
for Marie-Anne, for such a thought was inconceivable. The tragedy
was one-sided. It was his own folly, his own danger. For just as
he loved Marie-Anne, so did she love her husband, St. Pierre.
He came to the low ridge close to the river and climbed up through
the thick birches and poplars. At the top was a bald knob of
sandstone, over which the riverman had already passed. David
paused there and looked down on the broad sweep of the Athabasca.
What he saw was like a picture spread out on the great breast of
the river and the white strip of shoreline. Still a quarter of a
mile upstream, floating down slowly with the current, was a mighty
raft, and for a space his eyes took in nothing else.
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