On that fateful morning when the rising sun saw the slim canoes of the
Nakonkirhirinons trailing around the lower bend, Maren Le Moyne stood
by the little window in the small room to the east of the Baptiste
cabin and covered her face with her hands.
Great breaths lifted her breast, breaths that fluttered her open lips
and could not fill the gasping lungs beneath, that sounded in the
little room like tearless tearing sobs.
"Heavenly Mother!" she gasped between them; "Thou who art
woman...Mary..."
But the prayer hung aborted between the shuddering sighs.... Who shall
say that it is not such a cry, torn from the depths of the spirit by
instinct groping for its god, which reaches swiftest the Eternal
Infinite?
Until the last sound had faded into the morning, until the last little
ripple had widened to the shores and died among the willows, until the
screaming birds, startled from the edges of the river, had settled into
quiet, she stood so, fainting in her Gethsemane. She alone of all the
post had remained away from the great gate where was gathered the
populace at the nearest vantage point.
Silence of the young day hung in the palisade, a silence that cut the
soul with its tragic portent.
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