“I was three days in the woods before I found the Pottawatamies,” she said.  “I was alone all night with the stars and the trees.  I thought of everything.  I thought of this, monsieur.  I was sure you would do—­what you did.”

I stared at her stupidly.

She reached out and touched my hand.  “Monsieur, listen.  I have lived beside you.  I know you to be a man of fixed purpose and fanatic honor.  When such a man as you lays out a path for himself, he will follow it even if he has to trample on what is in his way,—­even if he has to trample on his heart, monsieur.”

I could not follow her argument.  “You should not touch my hand.”  I drew it away.  “You do not understand, after all.  Madame, I gave the signal knowing it meant your murder.”  I rose, and stood like stone.  My arms hung like weights by my side, but I would not look away from her.

She rose, too.  I saw a strange, wild brightness flame into her eyes.

“Monsieur,” she whispered.  “I understand so much more than you realize.  Listen.  You will listen?  Monsieur, until now you have always laughed.  You have been gay,—­gay at all times.  Yet, through it all I have seen—­I have always seen—­your terrible power of self-crucifixion.  Oh, I have seen it; I have feared it; I have loved it!  I have tried to get away from it.  But always I have been conscious of it.  It is you.  It has ruled all your dealings with me.  Else why did you take me with you?  Why did you marry me?  So in this matter.  You knew that the safety of the west, and of the Indians who trusted you, lay in attacking this camp.  I knew that you would attack it.  Monsieur, monsieur, now will you touch my hand?”

I stepped back.  “You cannot want to touch my hand.  Madame, you do not know what you are saying.”

But she did not move.  “Monsieur, will you never believe that I understand?”

I could not answer.  I turned from her.  The air was black.  I seized her fur cloak which lay on the couch and pressed it in my hands.  I knew that my breath rattled in groans like a dying man’s.  If I had tried to speak I should have snatched her to me.  I held fast to the table.  I had no thought of what she was thinking.  I knew only that I must stand there silent if I was to get away from her in safety.  If I touched her, if I looked at her, I should lose control, and take what she would give in pity.  I fought to save her as well as myself from my madness.

At last she spoke, and her voice was tired and quiet.  “You wish me to go, monsieur?”

That brought me to my manhood.  I went to her and looked down at her brown head; the brave brown head that she had carried so high through all the terror and unkindness that had come to her.  I touched her hair with my lips, and I grew as quiet as she.

“Mary,” I said, “it is I who must go away at once before I make trouble for both of us.  You are trying to forgive me, but you cannot do it.  You may think you have done it, but the time would come when you would look at me in horror, as you looked at Starling.  I could stand death better.  I know that you cannot forgive me.  I knew it at the moment when I gave the signal to attack the camp.  You can never forgive me.”