"To the ends of the world," the Chevalier had said. She
shook her head wearily. It was all over. She cared not whither these
savages took her. Mazarin would not find her indeed! What a life had
been hers! Only twenty-two, and nothing but unhappiness, disillusion,
with here and there an hour of midsummer's madness. And that note she
had written! The thought of it sustained her spirits. By now he knew
all. She shut her eyes and pictured in fancy his pain and astonishment
and chagrin. It was exhilarating. She would have liked to cry.
The Seneca chief spoke softly, commanding silence, and the canoes
glided noiselessly along the southern shores of the great river. The
sun sank presently, and night became prodigal with her stars.
Occasionally there was the sound of gurgling water as some brook poured
into the river, or the whisper of stirring branches lightly swept by
the feathered heads of the Indians. Aside from these infrequent
sounds, the silence was vast and imposing. Anne, with her head in
madame's lap, wept bitterly but without sound. She was a girl again;
the dignity of womanhood was gone, being no longer in the shadow of the
convent walls.
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