The two canoes were drawing near, and in one of them were two men,
and in the other three, and David knew that--like Joe Clamart--
they were watchers set over him by St. Pierre. Then a fourth canoe
left the far shore, and when it had reached mid-stream, he
recognized the figure in the stern as that of Andre, the Broken
Man. The other, he thought, must be St. Pierre.
He went back into the cabin and stood where Marie-Anne had stood--
at the window. Nepapinas had not taken away the basins of water,
and the bandages were still there, and the pile of medicated
cotton, and the suspiciously made-up bed. After all, he was losing
something by not occupying the bed--and yet if St. Pierre or
Bateese had messed him up badly, and a couple of fellows had
lugged him in between them, it was probable that Marie-Anne would
not have kissed him. And that kiss of St. Pierre's wife would
remain with him until the day he died!
He was thinking of it, the swift, warm thrill of her velvety lips,
red as strawberries and twice as sweet, when the door opened and
St. Pierre came in. The sight of him, in this richest moment of
his life, gave David no sense of humiliation or shame.
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