He wondered what Marie-Anne was doing in this hour. Last night
they had been together. He had marveled at the witchery of the
moonlight in her hair and eyes, he had told her of the beauty of
it, she had smiled, she had laughed softly with him--for hours
they had sat in the spell of the golden night and the glory of the
river. And tonight--now--was she with St. Pierre, waiting as they
had waited last night for the rising of the moon? Had she
forgotten? COULD she forget? Or was she, as he thought St. Pierre
had painfully tried to make him believe, innocent of all the
thoughts and desires that had come to him, as he sat worshipping
her in their stolen hours? He could think of them only as stolen,
for he did not believe Marie-Anne had revealed to her husband all
she might have told him.
He was sure he would never see her again as he had seen her then,
and something of bitterness rose in him as he thought of that. St.
Pierre, could he have seen her face and eyes when he told her that
her hair in the moonlight was lovelier than anything he had ever
seen, would have throttled him with his naked hands in that
meeting in the cabin. For St.
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