Resting for a moment, Carrigan went on to tell of the long years of unavailing search made by the Police after that; how Black Roger was caught once and killed his captor.  Then came the rumor that he was dead, and rumor grew into official belief, and the Police no longer hunted for his trails.  Then, not long ago, came the discovery that Black Roger was still living, and he, Dave Carrigan, was after him.

For a time there was silence after he had finished.  Then St. Pierre’s wife rose to her feet.  “I wonder,” she said in a low voice, “what Roger Audemard’s own story might be if he were here to tell it?”

She stepped out from under the awning, and in the full radiance of the moon he saw the pale beauty of her face and the crowning luster of her hair.

“Good night!” she whispered.

“Good night!” said David.

He listened until her retreating footsteps died away, and for hours after that he had no thought of sleep.  He had insisted that she take possession of her cabin again, and Bateese had brought out a bundle of blankets.  These he spread under the awning, and when he drowsed off, it was to dream of the lovely face he had seen last in the glow of the moon.

It was in the afternoon of the fourth day that two things happened—­one that he had prepared himself for, and another so unexpected that for a space it sent his world crashing out of its orbit.  With St. Pierre’s wife he had gone again to the ridge-line for flowers, half a mile back from the river.  Returning a new way, they came to a shallow stream, and Marie-Anne stood at the edge of it, and there was laughter in her shining eyes as she looked to the other side of it.  She had twined flowers into her hair.  Her cheeks were rich with color.  Her slim figure was exquisite in its wild pulse of life.

Suddenly she turned on him, her red lips smiling their witchery in his face.  “You must carry me across,” she said.

He did not answer.  He was a-tremble as he drew near her.  She raised her arms a little, waiting.  And then he picked her up.  She was against his breast.  Her two hands went to his shoulders as he waded into the stream; he slipped, and they clung a little tighter.  The soft note of laughter was in her throat when the current came to his knees out in the middle of the stream.  He held her tighter; and then stupidly, he slipped again, and the movement brought her lower in his arms, so that for a space her head was against his breast and his face was crushed in the soft masses of her hair.  He came with her that way to the opposite shore and stood her on her feet again, standing back quickly so that she would not hear the pounding of his heart.  Her face was radiantly beautiful, and she did not look at David, but away from him.

“Thank you,” she said.

And then, suddenly, they heard running feet behind them, and in another moment one of the brigade men came dashing through the stream.  At the same time there came from the river a quarter of a mile away a thunderous burst of voice.  It was not the voice of a dozen men, but of half a hundred, and Marie-Anne grew tense, listening, her eyes on fire even before the messenger could get the words out of his mouth.