a grave for the
picture. It is buried deep,--with all that I once thought that it
implied. If I confess now that it implied little you must find excuses
for me. I--my heart was in the camp in those days. The rest was
pastime. I have left pastimes behind, madame."

She would not look at me, yet I felt her change. The flitting,
indescribable air of elation that marked her from all women in the
world came back. She was again the woman of the forest, the woman who
had waked with a song and looked with unhurried pulse into the face of
danger. I breathed hard and bent to her, but she kept her eyes away.

"The fair little French face," she murmured. "You should not have put
it in the cold earth. You were needlessly cruel, monsieur."

I bent lower. "I was not cruel. I gave her a giant sepulchre. That
is over. But I--I shall have another miniature. I know a skilled man
in Paris. Some time--some time I mean to have your portrait in your
Indian blouse; in your skin blouse with the sun in your hair." My free
hand suddenly crept to her shoulder, "May I have it? May I have it,
madame?"

I cannot remember. Often as I have tried, I can never quite remember.
I am not sure that I heard her whisper. But I think that I did. She
quivered under my touch, but she did not draw away, and so we stood for
a moment, while my hand wandered where it had gone in dreams and rested
on her hair. "Mary!" I whispered, and once more we let the silence lie
like a pledge between us.

But in the moment of silence I heard again what I had forgotten,--the
roar of the camp outside. It seemed louder than it had been, and it
claimed my thought. I checked my breath to listen, holding the woman's
hand in mine. And while we listened, Cadillac's loud step and cheerful
voice came down the passage. The woman drew her hand away, and I let
her go. I let her go as if I were ashamed. I have cursed myself for
that ever since.

Cadillac stopped. "Are you there, Montlivet?" he called. "When you
are at leisure, come to my room." I heard his step retreat.

And then I turned to the woman. But with Cadillac's voice a change had
come. My mind was again heavy with anxiety. I remembered the
thronging Indians without, the pressing responsibilities within. I
remembered the volcano under us. For the moment I could not think of
my personal claims on the woman. I could think only of my anxiety for
her. Yet I went to her and took her hand.