Now that the stress of nerve-breaking
moments in the cabin was over, he no longer made an effort to
preserve the veneer of coolness and decision with which he had
encountered the chief of the Boulains. Deep in his soul he was
crushed and humiliated. Every nerve in his body was bleeding.
He had heard St. Pierre's big laugh a moment before, but it must
have been the laugh of a man who was stabbed to the heart. And he
was going back to Marie-Anne like that--drifting scarcely faster
than the current that he might steal time to strengthen himself
before he looked into her eyes again. David could see him,
motionless, his giant shoulders hunched forward a little, his head
bowed, and in the stern the Broken Man paddled listlessly, his
eyes on the face of his master. Without voice David cursed
himself. In his egoism he had told himself that he had made a
splendid fight in resisting the temptation of a great love for the
wife of St. Pierre. But what was his own struggle compared with
this tragedy which St. Pierre was now facing?
He turned from the window and looked about the cabin room again--
the woman's room and St. Pierre's--and his face burned in its
silent accusation.
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