Last night and the night before, strange dreams of her
had come to him in restless slumber. It was disturbing to him that
he should wake up in the middle of the night dreaming of her, when
he had gone to his bed with a mind filled to overflowing with the
sweet presence of Marie-Anne Boulain. And now his mind reached out
poignantly into mysterious darkness and doubt, even as the
darkness of night spread itself in a thickening canopy over the
river.
Gray clouds had followed the sun of a faultless day, and the stars
were veiled overhead. When David turned from the window, it was so
dark in the cabin that he could not see. He did not light the
lamps, but made his way to St. Pierre's couch and sat down in the
silence and gloom.
Through the open windows came to him the cadence of the river and
the forests. There was silence of human voice ashore, but under
him he heard the lapping murmur of water as it rustled under the
stern and side of the bateau, and from the deep timber came the
never-ceasing whisper of the spruce and cedar tops, and the
subdued voice of creatures whose hours of activity had come with
the dying out of the sun.
For a long time he sat in this darkness.
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