And never, he thought, had
he seen such a man. A moment before, a flashing vision had come to
him from out of an Arabian desert; the multitude of colored tents,
the half-naked men, the great raft floating almost without
perceptible motion on the placid breast of the river had stirred
his imagination until he saw a strange picture. But there was
nothing Arabic, nothing desert-like, in this man his binoculars
brought within a few feet of his eyes. He was more like a viking
pirate who had roved the sea a few centuries ago. One great, bare
arm was raised as David looked, and his booming voice was rolling
over the river again. His hair was shaggy, and untrimmed, and red;
he wore a short beard that glistened in the sun--he was laughing
as he waved and shouted to Marie-Anne--a joyous, splendid giant of
a man who seemed almost on the point of leaping into the water in
his eagerness to clasp in his naked arms the woman who was coming
to him.
David drew a deep breath, and there came an unconscious tightening
at his heart as he turned his glasses upon Marie-Anne. She was
still standing in the bow of the York boat, and her back was
toward him.
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