She had laughed differently with HIM--and the grim
smile settled on his lips as he looked up at the narrow slit of
light over his head. He had an overwhelming desire to look in.
After all, it was a matter of professional business--and his duty.
He was glad the curtain was drawn so low. From experiments of his
own he knew there was small chance of those inside seeing him
through the two-inch slit, and he raised himself boldly until his
eyes were on a level with the aperture.
Directly in the line of his vision was St. Pierre's wife. She was
seated, and her back was toward him, so he could not see her face.
She was partly disrobed, and her hair was streaming loose about
her. Once, he remembered, she had spoken of fiery lights that came
into her hair under certain illumination. He had seen them in the
sun, but never as they revealed themselves now in that cabin lamp
glow. He scarcely looked at St. Pierre, who was on his feet,
looking down upon her--not until St. Pierre reached out and
crumpled the smothering mass of glowing tresses in his big hands,
and laughed. It was a laugh filled with the unutterable joy of
possession. The woman rose to her feet.
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