Pierre's wife, for
there must have been something there now which it would have been
sacrilege for him to stare at, as he was staring at her hair.
No sound of opening door had come from behind them. Yet St. Pierre
had opened it and stood there, watching them with a curious humor
in eyes that seemed still to hold a glitter of the fire that had
leaped from the half-breed's flaming birch logs. His voice was a
shock to Carrigan.
"PESTE, but you are a gloomy pair!" he boomed. "Why no light over
there in the corner, and why sing that death-song to chase away
the devil when there is no devil near?"
Guilt was in David's heart, but there was no sting of venom in St.
Pierre's words, and he was laughing at them now, as though what he
saw were a pretty joke and amused him.
"Late hours and shady bowers! I say it should be a love song or
something livelier," he cried, closing the door behind him and
coming toward them. "Why not En Roulant ma Boule, my sweet Jeanne?
You know that is my favorite."
He suddenly interrupted himself, and his voice rolled out in a
wild chant that rocked the cabin.
"The wind is fresh, the wind is free, En roulant ma boule! The
wind is fresh--my love waits me, Rouli, roulant, ma boule
roulant! Behind our house a spring you see, In it three ducks
swim merrily, And hunting, the Prince's son went he, With a
silver gun right fair to see--"
David was conscious that St.
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