"How are you, David?" asked St. Pierre.
"Fine," nodded Carrigan. "And you?"
"A bit scorched, and a broken leg." He held up his padded hands.
"Would be dead if you hadn't carried me to the river. Carmin says
she owes you her life for having saved mine."
"And Marie-Anne?"
"That's what I've come to tell you about," said St. Pierre. "The
instant they knew you were able to listen, both Carmin and Marie-
Anne insisted that I come and tell you things. But if you don't
feel well enough to hear me now--"
"Go on!" almost threatened David.
The look of cheer which had illumined St. Pierre's face faded
away, and David saw in its place the lines of sorrow which had
settled there. He turned his gaze toward a window through which
the afternoon sun was coming, and nodded slowly.
"You saw--out there. He's dead. They buried him in a casket made
of sweet cedar. He loved the smell of that. He was like a little
child. And once--a long time ago--he was a splendid man, a greater
and better man than St. Pierre, his brother, will ever be. What he
did was right and just, M'sieu David. He was the oldest--sixteen--
when the thing happened. I was only nine, and didn't fully
understand.
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