ad come back. He was watching two York
boats that were heading for the bateau.

"You heard him asking for Black Roger Audemard," she said. "It is
strange. I know how it must have shocked you when he stood like that in
the door. His mind, like his body, is a wreck, M'sieu David. Years ago,
after a great storm, St. Pierre found him in the forest. A tree had
fallen on him. St. Pierre carried him in on his shoulders. He lived,
but he has always been like that. St. Pierre loves him, and poor Andre
worships St. Pierre and follows him about like a dog. His brain is
gone. He does not know what his name is, and we call him Andre. And
always, day and night, he is asking that same question, 'Has any one
seen Black Roger Audemard?' Sometime--if you will, M'sieu David--I
should like to have you tell me what it is so terrible that you know
about Roger Audemard."

The York boats were half-way across the river, and from them came a
sudden burst of wild song. David could make out six men in each boat,
their oars flashing in the morning sun to the rhythm of their chant.
Marie-Anne looked up at him suddenly, and in her face and eyes he saw
what the starry gloom of evening had half hidden from him in those
thrilling moments when they shot through the rapids of the Holy Ghost.
She was girl now. He did not think of her as woman. He did not think of
her as St. Pierre's wife. In that upward glance of her eyes was
something that thrilled him to the depth of his soul. She seemed, for a
moment, to have dropped a curtain from between herself and him.

Her red lips trembled, she smiled at him, and then she faced the river
again, and he leaned a little forward, so that a breath of wind floated
a shimmering tress of her hair against his cheek. An irresistible
impulse seized upon him. He leaned still nearer to her, holding his
breath, until his lips softly touched one of the velvety coils of her
hair. And then he stepped back. Shame swept over him. His heart rose
and choked him, and his fists were clenched at his side. She had not
noticed what he had done, and she seemed to him like a bird yearning to
fly out through the window, throbbing with the desire to answer the
chanting song that came over the water. And then she was smiling up
again into his face hardened with the struggle which he was making with
himself.

"My people are happy," she cried. "Even in storm they laugh and sing.
Listen, m'sieu. They are singing La Derniere Domaine. That is ou