s and row
with all her might.
She was so tired her heart physically ached when she slipped through
dawn to a landing opposite the cave. There would be no more yesterdays,
and there would be no time for farewells. The wash which drove her
roughly to mooring drove with her the fact that she did not know even
the name of the man she was about to give up.
Marianson turned and looked at the water he must venture upon, without
a sail to help him. It was not all uncovered from the night, but a long
purple current ran out, as if God had made a sudden amethyst bridge
across the blue strait.
Reluctant as she was to call him from the cave, she dared not delay. The
breath of the virgin woods was overpoweringly sweet. Her hair clung to
her forehead in moist rings, and her cheeks were pallid and wet with
mist which rose and rose on all sides like clouds in a holy picture.
He was asleep.
She crouched down on cold hands and saw that. He had waited in the cave
as he promised, and had fallen asleep. His back was towards her. Instead
of lying at ease, his body was flexed. Her enlarging pupils caught a
stain of red on the bear-skin, then the scarlet tonsure on his crown. He
was asleep, but the Sioux had been there.
The low song of wind along that wooded ridge, and the roar of dashing
lake water, repeated their monotone hour after hour. It proved as fair a
day as the island had ever seen, and when it was nearly spent, Marianson
Bruelle still sat on the cave floor holding the dead boy in her arms.
Heart-uprooting was a numbness, like rapture. At least he could not
leave her. She had his kiss, his love. She had his body, to hide in a
grave as secret as a flower's. The cure could some time bless it, but
the English who had slain him should never know it. As she held him to
her breast, so the sweet processes of the woods should hold him, and
make him part of the island.
End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Marianson, by Mary Hartwell Catherwood
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