She lifted her eyes to mine.  “I have not forgiven you, monsieur.  There is nothing to forgive.”

I let myself look at her, and all my calmness left me.  I shut my teeth and tried to hold myself in bounds.

“Mary!” I groaned, “be careful!  Be careful!  It is not your pity I want.  If you forgive me for pity”——­

I could not finish, for she gave a little sob.  She turned to me.  “It is you who marry for pity,” she cried, with her eyes brimming.  “I could not.  I would not.  And I have nothing to forgive; nothing, nothing.  I would not have had you do anything else.  I was proud of you.  Oh, so proud, so proud!  If you had done anything else I could never have——­ Monsieur, do you love me—­a little?”

I took her in my arms.  I held her close to me and looked into her eyes.  I looked deep into them and into the soul of her.  I saw understanding of me, acceptance of me as I was.  I saw belief, heart hunger, love.

And then I laid my lips on hers.  She was my wife.  She was the woman God had made for me, the woman who had trusted me through more than death, and who had come to me through blood and agony and tears.  She was my own, and I had her there alive.  I took her to myself.

CHAPTER XXXIII

TO US AND TO OUR CHILDREN

Hours passed and the flap of Cadillac’s tent was not lifted.  Outside in the camp the drum beat for sunset.  The woman heard it.  She pushed back her soft waves of hair, and a shadow fell across the light that had been in her eyes.

“I had forgotten,” she cried, with a soft tremble of wonder in her voice.  “We have both forgotten.  We promised the commandant that we would talk about your duty to the tribes.”

I kissed her for her forgetfulness.  “Talk is unnecessary,” I whispered.  “I have made up my mind.”

But the drum’s note had recalled her to what lay outside the tent walls.  She sighed a little and bent to me as I sat at her feet.

“Do not make up your mind yet,” she begged with a curious, tender reluctance.  “Let me tell you something first.”

I pressed her hand between my own.  “I cannot listen.  I can only feel.  Tell me, when did you love me first?”

She raised her hand to hide a tide of color.  “Monsieur, it is my shame,” she cried, with a little half sob of exultance.  “It is my shame, but I will tell you.  The night—­the night that we were married, I lay awake for hours beset by jealousy of the woman of the miniature.  Oh, I am indeed shamed!  But how could I help it?  Your walk, your laugh, your way of carrying your head!  How could I keep from loving you?  But I fought it.  I fought it.  I knew we had to part.  I went to sleep every night with that thought uppermost.”

I took the hand I held, and quieted its trembling against my lips.  “You are my wife,” I said.  “We shall never part.  We shall live together till we are very old.”  The marvel of my own words awed me.