Always these days he glanced that way with a sick
feeling in the region of his heart. Who was he, Marc Dupre, trapper of
the big woods, that he should dare think so often of that woman from
Grand Portage, with her wondrous beauty and her tongue that could be
like a cold knife-blade or the petal of a lily for softness? And yet he
was conscious of a mighty change that had come over him with that day
on the flat rock by the stockade when she had talked to him of the
trapping,--a change like that which comes to one when he is so
fortunate as to be in distant Montreal and sits in the dusk of the
great church there among the saints and the incense.
There was no longer pleasure in flipping jests and love words with the
red-cheeked maids, and something had happened to the dashing spirit of
the youth. All through those long days in the forest, those short blue
nights under the velvet sky, one image had stood before him, calm,
smiling, quivering with that illusive light which held men's hearts.
Never a day that he could win forgetfulness of the face of Maren Le
Moyne, and now he glanced toward her doorway. It lay in the sunlight
without a foot upon its sill, and Marc sighed unconsciously.
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