He could see the glisten of the sun in her hair. She
was waving her handkerchief, and the poise of her slim body told
him that in her eagerness she would have darted from the bow of
the boat had she possessed wings.
Again he looked at St. Pierre. And this was the man who was no
match for Concombre Bateese! It was inconceivable. Yet he heard
Marie-Anne's voice repeating those very words in his ear. But she
had surely been joking with him. She had been storing up this
little surprise for him. She had wanted him to discover with his
own eyes what a splendid man was this chief of the Boulains. And
yet, as David stared, there came to him an unpleasant thought of
the incongruity of this thing he was looking upon. It struck upon
him like a clashing discord, the fact of matehood between these
two--a condition inconsistent and out of tune with the beautiful
things he had built up in his mind about the woman. In his soul he
had enshrined her as a lovely wildflower, easily crushed, easily
destroyed, a sweet treasure to be guarded from all that was rough
and savage, a little violet-goddess as fragile as she was brave
and loyal. And St. Pierre, standing there at the edge of his raft,
looked as if he had come up out of the caves of a million years
ago! There was something barbaric about him.
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