He saw every flush on her open
face, every droop of her eyes. Again he saw the white fire in her
features that day in the forest glade when she spoke of the Land of the
Whispering Hills. He pondered for the first time, lying bound and
helpless among savages, of that unbending thing within her which drove
her into the wilderness with such resistless force. Granted that she
had loved him as he thought during that delirious short space of time,
would love have been stronger than that force, or would it have been
sacrificed? She was so strong, this strange girl of the long trail, so
strong for all things gentle, so unmoving from the way of tenderness.
Proving that came the picture of the tot on her shoulder. "dipping as
the ships at sea, ma cherie," and the look of her face transfigured.
And yet home for her was "the blue sky above, the wind in the pine-
tops, the sound of water lapping at the prow of a canoe." So she had
said on that last day they spoke together in happiness, passing in
diffident joy to the gate to meet De Courtenay's fateful messenger.
Of all women in the vast world she was the one woman. There was never
another face with that strange allurement, that baffling light of
strength and tenderness.
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