veiled overhead. When David turned from the window, it was so dark in
the cabin that he could not see. He did not light the lamps, but made
his way to St. Pierre's couch and sat down in the silence and gloom.

Through the open windows came to him the cadence of the river and the
forests. There was silence of human voice ashore, but under him he
heard the lapping murmur of water as it rustled under the stern and
side of the bateau, and from the deep timber came the never-ceasing
whisper of the spruce and cedar tops, and the subdued voice of
creatures whose hours of activity had come with the dying out of the
sun.

For a long time he sat in this darkness. And then there came to him a
sound that was different than the other sounds--a low monotone of
voices, the dipping of a paddle--and a canoe passed close under his
windows and up the shore. He paid small attention to it until, a little
later, the canoe returned, and its occupants boarded the bateau. It
would have roused little interest in him then had he not heard a voice
that was thrillingly like the voice of a woman.

He drew his hunched shoulders erect and stared through the darkness
toward the door. A moment more and there was no doubt. It was almost
shock that sent the blood leaping suddenly through his veins. The
inconceivable had happened. It was Marie-Anne out there, talking in a
low voice to Bateese!

Then there came a heavy knock at his door, and he heard the door open.
Through it he saw the grayer gloom of the outside night partly shut out
a heavy shadow.

"M'sieu!" called the voice of Bateese.

"I am here," said David.

"You have not gone to bed, m'sieu?"

"No."

The heavy shadow seemed to fade away, and yet there still remained a
shadow there. David's heart thumped as he noted the slenderness of it.
For a space there was silence. And then,

"Will you light the lamps, M'sieu David?" a soft voice came to him. "I
want to come in, and I am afraid of this terrible darkness!"

He rose to his feet, fumbling in his pocket for matches.

XVIII

He did not turn toward Marie-Anne when he had lighted the first of the
great brass lamps hanging at the side of the bateau. He went to the
second, and struck another match, and flooded the cabin with light.

She still stood silhouetted against the darkness beyond the cabin door
when he faced her. She was watching him, her eyes intent, her face a
little pale, he thought. Then he smiled and nodded. He co