it in his face.

"It was splendid!" she whispered again.

And then, suddenly, she rose up on her tiptoes and kissed him. So
swiftly was it done that she was gone before he sensed that wild touch
of her lips against his own. Like a swallow she was at the door, and
the door opened and closed behind her, and for a moment he heard the
quick running of her feet. Then he looked at the old Indian, and the
Indian, too, was staring at the door through which St. Pierre's wife
had flown.

XXII

For many seconds that seemed like minutes David stood where she had
left him, while Nepapinas rose gruntingly to his feet, and gathered up
his belongings, and hobbled sullenly to the bateau door and out. He was
scarcely conscious of the Indian's movement, for his soul was aflame
with a red-hot fire. Deliberately--with that ravishing glory of
something in her eyes--St. Pierre's wife had kissed him! On her
tiptoes, her cheeks like crimson flowers, she had given her still
redder lips to him! And his own lips burned, and his heart pounded
hard, and he stared for a time like one struck dumb at the spot where
she had stood by the window. Then suddenly, he turned to the door and
flung it wide open, and on his lips was the reckless cry of
Marie-Anne's name. But St. Pierre's wife was gone, and Nepapinas was
gone, and at the tail of the big sweep sat only Joe Clamart, guarding
watchfully.

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
c