She examined the seal with amazement as I had done, then looked at Singing Arrow.  “The Indian brought this?  It must be very important.  Ought I——­ Is it right for me to see it, monsieur?”

I laughed.  I looked off at the piling thundercaps and the ruffling water, and the exhilaration of the coming storm whipped through me.  There was a pleasant tang to life.

“Read it, yes,” I insisted.  “You are Madame de Montlivet.  No one can have a better right.  Read it after we land.”

It took some moments to make a landing, for the waves were already high and the shore rough.  In spite of ourselves we tore the canoes on hidden rocks.  We unloaded the cargo and had things snug and tidy by the time the first great drops plumped down upon us.  We worked like ants, and I did not look at the woman.  I knew that she was reading the letter, and I had no wish to spy.

But when I went to her there was no letter in sight.  I did not stop to talk, but I wrapped her in the cloak that Onanguisse had given her, and wound her still further with blankets.  “You will be cool enough in a few minutes,” I assured her, and I made a nest for her in a thicket of young pines.  She obeyed me dumbly, but with a certain gentleness, a sort of submission.  As she gazed up at me with her brown face and inscrutable eyes, my hands were not quite steady.  Heretofore I had felt her power; now I felt only her inexperience, her dependence.  Child, woman, sphinx!  What should I do with her?  I turned away.  The rain was upon us in earnest.

I looked for my crew.  The men were curled under trees, but Singing Arrow had used more craft.  She had hidden herself under her light canoe,—­which she had first secured with pegs that it might not blow away,—­and she lay as compact and comfortable as a tree-housed grub.  I lifted the corner of the canoe and peered at her, whereat she giggled happily, serene in the thought that I was wet while she was dry.  She was as restful to the brain as a frolicking puppy, and I shook my head at her to hear her giggle again.  I was about to wonder whether she had ever known awe of anything, but just then the thunder, which had been merely growling, barked out like a howitzer above us, and she covered her head and screamed like any of her sex.

The thunder sent me back to the woman.  I crept, wet as I was, into her pine-needled hollow, and started to ask if she were afraid.  But the question died at sight of her.  She was propped on her elbows, and had parted the low boughs in front of her that she might look out at the storm.  She turned at sound of me, and the blood was in her cheeks as I felt it in mine.

“Come,” she cried with her motion.

I went and lay close beside her, peering, as she did, through the trees.  The world was all wind and red light and churning water.  I could feel her quick breathing.

“I can hear the spirit of the wilderness crying,” she said to me.  The lightning played over her face and eyes, and they shone like flame.