Who knew?
Perhaps the Nakonkirhirinons had already yielded to the savage wrath
that takes a "skin for a skin,"--perhaps they had passed somewhere in
the forest, hidden from view from the water, the too well-known
blackened stake, the trodden circle. Perhaps there was no factor of
Fort de Seviere.
Only Marc Dupre, nearest Maren in every change and arrangement, had no
such thoughts. Dreams enough he wove in all surety, but they had to do
with the blinding heights of sacrifice, the wistful valleys of
renunciation.
His heart was full to overflowing with idolatry. From shadow and
fireglow his dark eyes looked upon her with a love that had passed far
beyond the need of word or touch, that buoyed her up and supported her
in strength and purity, like the silver cloud beneath the feet of the
Madonna.
And Maren, too, dreamed her dreams, for she had dreamed since the days
of the forge in Grand Portage, and they were sad as death. No more did
she list the sound of a western wind in the bending grass of a far
country, the rush of virgin rivers, the whisper of pine-clad hills. The
joy of the great quest was dead within her, the love of forest and
stream, the lure of trail and trace.
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