At sight of her he halted and stood a moment in hushed joy, looking
with eyes that knew their glory, for with every passing second Anders
McElroy was learning that nowhere in all the world, as had said that
flaming youth Marc Dupre, was there another woman like this Maren Le
Moyne.
She stood in a little glade, cool, high-canopied, where the sunlight
came in little spots to play over the soft carpet of the pale forest
grass thick-starred with frail white flowers, and her back was to a
tree that towered to heaven in its height. At her sides her brown arms
hung, palms out in an utter abandon of pleasure, while her lifted face,
with its closed eyes, communed with the very Spirit of the Wild. Like
some priestess she was, and McElroy felt an odd sensation of
unworthiness sweep over him as he stood silent, his sober blue eyes on
the beauty of her face. He cast swiftly back across his life. Was there
anything there which might forbid him now, when he would go forward to
so pure a thing as this maid, dreaming her dreams of prowess in the
wilderness?
Nay, he saw no unworthy deed, nothing to spoil the page of a
commonplace life spent at his old father's side across the sea, nothing
of the so common evils of the settlement.
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