He felt creeping over him a sickening shame, and his eyes fell slowly from her to the table.  What he saw there caught his breath in the middle.  It was the entire surgical outfit of Nepapinas, the old Indian doctor.  And there were basins of water, and white strips of linen ready for use, and a pile of medicated cotton, and all sorts of odds and ends that one might apply to ease the agonies of a dying man, And beyond the table, huddled in so small a heap that he was almost hidden by it, was Nepapinas himself, disappointment writ in his mummy-like face as his beady eyes rested on David.

The evidence could not be mistaken.  They had expected him to come back more nearly dead than alive, and St. Pierre’s wife had prepared for the thing she had thought inevitable.  Even his bed was nicely turned down, its fresh white sheets inviting an occupant!

And David, looking at St. Pierre’s wife again, felt his heart beating hard in his breast at the look which was in her eyes.  It was not the scintillation of laughter, and the flame in her cheeks was not embarrassment.  She was not amused.  The ludicrousness of her mislaid plans had not struck her as they had struck him.  She had placed the binoculars on the table, and slowly she came to him.  Her hands reached out, and her fingers rested like the touch of velvet on his arms.

“It was splendid!” she said softly, “It was splendid!”

She was very near, her breast almost touching him, her hands creeping up until the tips of her fingers rested on his shoulders, her scarlet mouth so close he could feel the soft breath of it in his face.

“It was splendid!” she whispered again.

And then, suddenly, she rose up on her tiptoes and kissed him.  So swiftly was it done that she was gone before he sensed that wild touch of her lips against his own.  Like a swallow she was at the door, and the door opened and closed behind her, and for a moment he heard the quick running of her feet.  Then he looked at the old Indian, and the Indian, too, was staring at the door through which St. Pierre’s wife had flown.

XXII

For many seconds that seemed like minutes David stood where she had left him, while Nepapinas rose gruntingly to his feet, and gathered up his belongings, and hobbled sullenly to the bateau door and out.  He was scarcely conscious of the Indian’s movement, for his soul was aflame with a red-hot fire.  Deliberately—­with that ravishing glory of something in her eyes—­St. Pierre’s wife had kissed him!  On her tiptoes, her cheeks like crimson flowers, she had given her still redder lips to him!  And his own lips burned, and his heart pounded hard, and he stared for a time like one struck dumb at the spot where she had stood by the window.  Then suddenly, he turned to the door and flung it wide open, and on his lips was the reckless cry of Marie-Anne’s name.  But St. Pierre’s wife was gone, and Nepapinas was gone, and at the tail of the big sweep sat only Joe Clamart, guarding watchfully.