Nor was there great regret over Micene. Too
sharp had been her tongue, too keen her perception of their faults.
True, the autumn was near at hand. Winter would come with its myriad
foes before they could hope to be ready for it, and Maren, looking far
ahead, saw it and its dangers, and her heart sickened a bit with the
thought of her people; but the thing within was stronger than all else.
She must leave De Seviere at once. Therefore, she raised her head with
her face to the west.
It was early dawn again. It seemed that it had ever been dawn when
fateful things had happened in this post, every log and stone of which
was suddenly dear to her.
She stood in the opened gate and looked back upon it, on the cabins,
the well where De Courtenay had placed his first red flower in her
hair, the storehouses, and the factory.
The factory!
With sight of it once more the wave of anguish swept over her. She saw
the small plain room at the back, the figure of a man prone in his
helplessness, a fair head with blue eyes, pleading in their honest
clearness, and her lips trembled.
"Ready?" she said, and the deep voice slipped unsteadily.
"Aye," answered Prix Laroux, and picked up the last pack of chattels.
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