become the soul and the
promise of life. It was Marette's river and his river, and in a little
while they would be on it. And Marette would then tell him about
Kedsty. He was sure of that. She would tell him what had happened while
he slept. His faith was illimitable.

They came into the sodden dip at the foot of the ridge, and the
lightning revealed to him the edge of the poplar growth in which
O'Connor had seen Marette many weeks ago. The bayou trail wound through
this, and Kent struck out for it blindly in the darkness. He did not
try to talk, but he freed his companion's hand and put his arm about
her when they came to the level ground, so that she was sheltered by
him from the beat of the storm. Then brush swished in their faces, and
they stopped, waiting for the lightning again. Kent was not anxious for
it to come. He drew the girl still closer, and in that pit of
blackness, with the deluge about her and the crash of thunder over her
head, she snuggled up against his breast, the throb of her body against
him, waiting, watching, with him. Her frailty, the helplessness of her,
the slimness of her in the crook of his arm, filled him with an
exquisite exultation. He did not think of her now as the splendid,
fearless creature who had leveled her little black gun at the three men
in barracks. She was no longer the mysterious, defiant, unafraid person
who had held him in a sort of awe that first hour in Kedsty's place.
For she was crumpled against him now, utterly dependent and afraid. In
that chaos of storm something told him that her nerve was broken, that
without him she would be lost and would cry out in fear. _And he was
glad_! He held her tighter; he bent his head until his face touched the
wet, crushed hair under the edge of her turban. And then the lightning
split open the night again, and he saw the way ahead of him to the
trail.

Even in darkness it was not difficult to follow in the clean-cut wagon
path. Over their heads the tops of the poplars swished and wailed.
Under their feet the roadway in places was a running stream or
inundated until it became a pool. In pitch blackness they struck such a
pool, and in spite of the handicap of his packs and rifle Kent stopped
suddenly, and picked Marette up in his arms, and carried her until they
reached high ground. He did not ask permission. And Marette, for a
minute or two, lay crumpled up close in his arms, and for a thrilling
instant his face touched her rain-we