"How could you misunderstand--O Hortense, after that night in the hunting-room, how could you believe so poorly of me!"
She gave a low laugh. "That's what your good angel used to plead," she said.
"Good angel, indeed!" said I, memory of the vows to that miscreant adventurer fading. "That good angel was a lazy baggage! She should have compelled you to believe!"
"Oh--she did," says Hortense quickly. "The poor thing kept telling me and telling me to trust you till I--"
"Monsieur and the blackamoor and I had gone to the upper river watching for the expected boats----"
"Hortense, were you the white figure behind the bush that night we were spying on the Prince Rupert!"
"Yes," she said, "and you pointed your gun at me!"
I was too dumfounded for words. Then a suspicion flashed to my mind. "Who sent Le Borgne for us in the storm, Hortense?"
"Oh," says Hortense, "that was nothing! Monsieur pretended that he thought you were caribou. He wanted to shoot. Oh," she said, "oh, how I have hated him! To think--to think that he would shoot when you helped us in Boston!"
"Hortense, who sent Le Borgne and M. Picot to save me from the wolves?"
"Oh," says Hortense bravely, with a shudder between the words, "that was--that was nothing--I mean--one would do as much for anybody--for--for--for a poor little stoat, or--or--a caribou if the wolves were after it!"
And we laughed with the tears in our eyes. And all the while that vow to the dying adventurer was ringing like a faint death toll to hope. I remember trying to speak a gratitude too deep for words.
"Can--I ever--ever repay you--Hortense?" I was asking.
"Repay!" she said with a little bitter laugh. "Oh! I hate that word repay! I hate all give-and-take and so-much-given-for-so-much-got!" Then turning to me with her face aflame: "I am--I am--oh--why can't you understand?" she asked.
And then--and then--there was a wordless cry--her arms reached out in mute appeal--there was no need of speech.
The forest shone green and gold in the sunlight. The wind rustled past like a springtime presence, a presence that set all the pines swaying and the aspens aquiver with music of flower legend and new birth and the joy of life. There was a long silence; and in that silence the pulsing of the mighty forces that lift mortals to immortality.