until tonight he
was confident she had fought against this suspicion, and had overridden
it, even though she knew a woman more beautiful than herself was slowly
drifting down the stream with her husband. She had betrayed no anxiety
to him in the days that had passed; she had waited eagerly for St.
Pierre; like a bird she had gone to him when at last he came, and he
had seen her crushed close in St. Pierre's arms in their meeting. It
was this night, with its gloom and its storm, that had made the
shadowings of her unrest a torturing reality. For St. Pierre had
brought her back to the bateau and had played a pitiably weak part in
concealing his desire to return to the raft.

So he told himself Marie-Anne did not know the truth, not as he had
seen it through the window of St. Pierre's cabin. She had been hurt,
for he had seen the sting of it, and in that same instant he had seen
her soul rise up and triumph. He saw again the sudden fire that came
into her eyes when St. Pierre urged the necessity of his haste, he saw
her slim body grow tense, her red lips curve in a flash of pride and
disdain. And as Carrigan thought of her in that way his muscles grew
tighter, and he cursed St. Pierre. Marie-Anne might be hurt, she might
guess that her husband's eyes and thoughts were too frequently upon
another's face--but in the glory of her womanhood it was impossible for
her to conceive of a crime such as he had witnessed through the cabin
window. Of that he was sure.

And then, suddenly, like a blinding sheet of lightning out of a dark
sky, came back to him all that St. Pierre had said about Marie-Anne. He
had pitied St. Pierre then; he had pitied this great cool-eyed giant of
a man who was fighting gloriously, he had thought, in the face of a
situation that would have excited most men. Frankly St. Pierre had told
him Marie-Anne cared more for him than she should. With equal frankness
he had revealed his wife's confessions to him, that she knew of his
love for her, of his kiss upon her hair.

In the blackness Carrigan's face burned hot. If he had in him the
desire to kill St. Pierre now, might not St. Pierre have had an equally
just desire to kill him? For he had known, even as he kissed her hair,
and as his arms held her close to his breast in crossing the creek,
that she was the wife of St. Pierre. And Marie-Anne--

His muscles relaxed. Slowly he lowered himself into the cool wash of
the river, and struck out toward the bateau.