Directly in the line of his vision was St. Pierre’s wife.  She was seated, and her back was toward him, so he could not see her face.  She was partly disrobed, and her hair was streaming loose about her.  Once, he remembered, she had spoken of fiery lights that came into her hair under certain illumination.  He had seen them in the sun, but never as they revealed themselves now in that cabin lamp glow.  He scarcely looked at St. Pierre, who was on his feet, looking down upon her—­not until St. Pierre reached out and crumpled the smothering mass of glowing tresses in his big hands, and laughed.  It was a laugh filled with the unutterable joy of possession.  The woman rose to her feet.  Up through her hair went her two white, bare arms, encircling St. Pierre’s neck.  The giant drew her close.  Her slim form seemed to melt in his, and their lips met.

And then the woman threw back her head, laughing, so that her glory of hair fell straight down, and she was out of reach of St. Pierre’s lips.  They turned.  Her face fronted the window, and out in the night Carrigan stifled a cry that almost broke from his lips.  For a flash he was looking straight into her eyes.  Her parted lips seemed smiling at him; her white throat and bosom were bared to him.  He dropped down, his heart choking him as he stumbled through the darkness to the edge of the raft.  There, with the lap of the water at his feet, he paused.  It was hard for him to get Breath.  He stared through the gloom in the direction of the bateau.  Marie-Anne Boulain, the woman he loved, was there!  In her little cabin, alone, on the bateau, was St. Pierre’s wife, her heart crushed.

And in this cabin on the raft, forgetful of her degradation and her grief, was the vilest wretch he had ever known—­St. Pierre Boulain.  And with him, giving herself into his arms, caressing him with her lips and hair, was the sister of the man he had helped to hang—­Carmin Fanchet!

XX

The shock of the amazing discovery which Carrigan had made was as complete as it was unexpected.  His eyes had looked upon the last thing in the world he might have guessed at or anticipated when they beheld through the window of St. Pierre’s cabin the beautiful face and partly disrobed figure of Carmin Fanchet.  The first effect of that shock had been to drive him away.  His action had been involuntary, almost without the benefit of reason, as if Carmin had been Marie-Anne herself receiving the caresses which were rightfully hers, and upon which it was both insult and dishonor for him to spy.  He realized now that he had made a mistake in leaving the window too quickly.