"Let us be off," was madame's rejoinder.
The Chevalier stepped in and took the paddle, while Victor pushed the
canoe into the water. He and Anne followed presently. Madame sat in
the bow, her back to the Chevalier, her hands resting lightly on the
sides. The rings which the Chevalier had seen on those beautiful hands
while in Quebec were gone, even to the wedding ring. They were
doubtless bedecking the pudgy digits of one Corn Planter's wife, far
away in the Seneca country. The canoe quivered as the Chevalier's
strong arms swung the narrow-bladed paddle. Past marshes went the
painted canoes; they swam the singing shallows; they glided under
shading willow; they sped by wild grape-vine and spreading elm. The
stream was embroidered with a thousand grasses, dying daisies, paling
goldenrod, berry bushes, and wild-rose thorn. A thousand elusive
perfumes rose to greet them, a thousand changing scenes. October, in
all her gorgeous furbelows, sat upon her throne. The Chevalier never
uttered a word, but studied madame's half-turned cheek. Once he was
conscious that the color on that cheek deepened, then faded.
Pages:
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501