Pierre nor
Bateese would demand another chance at him, and St. Pierre would
pay his wager.
He could see no one aboard the bateau when he climbed from the
canoe. Looking back, he saw that two other canoes had started from
the opposite shore. Then he went to his cabin door, opened it, and
entered, Scarcely had the door closed behind him when he stopped,
staring toward the window that opened on the river.
Standing full in the morning glow of it was Marie-Anne Boulain.
She was facing him. Her cheeks were flushed. Her red lips were
parted. Her eyes were aglow with a fire which she made no effort
to hide from him. In her hand she still held the binoculars he had
left on the cabin table. He guessed the truth. Through the glasses
she had watched the whole miserable fiasco.
He felt creeping over him a sickening shame, and his eyes fell
slowly from her to the table. What he saw there caught his breath
in the middle. It was the entire surgical outfit of Nepapinas, the
old Indian doctor. And there were basins of water, and white
strips of linen ready for use, and a pile of medicated cotton, and
all sorts of odds and ends that one might apply to ease the
agonies of a dying man, And beyond the table, huddled in so small
a heap that he was almost hidden by it, was Nepapinas himself,
disappointment writ in his mummy-like face as his beady eyes
rested on David.
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