There is always hope. So. We go
now."
Thus they separated, that small band, as hopeless together as apart in
case of discovery, and at last Dupre followed alone, his heart heavy
within him and a grip in his throat of tears. On through the leafy
forest, parting the lacing vines, holding each branch that it might not
swish to place, they went, far from safety and the commonplace of life,
and a prescience of disaster weighed on the trapper's soul like lead.
At last it grew more than he could bear, and he reached a hand to
Maren's shoulder, a tentative hand, hesitating, as if it felt its touch
blasphemy.
"Ma'amselle," he faltered, "forgive me! But, oh! without confession
this night I am sick to my heart's core! I lied to you back at the
cove, though with a clean conscience, for it is love,--love of a man
warm and wild that tears my soul to tatters! I love you with all love,
of saint and sinner, of Heaven and earth, and I would have you know
it!"
His low voice was shaking, as was his whole slim body, and Maren felt
it in the hand on her shoulder.
"As a man, Ma'amselle, I would give my life for one touch of your lips!
As a lost monk I would kiss your garment's hem! See!"
He dropped to his knee and, catching her beaded skirt, pressed it to
his lips again and again, passionately, swept away by his French blood.
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