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Marianson felt her happiness jarred as the wonderful day came to such limits. The English had the island. It might be searched for that young deserter waiting for her help, and if she failed to get a boat, what must be his fate? She had entered the west door of the distillery. She found opportunity to slip out on the east side, for it was necessary to reach the dock and get a boat.

Every globule which fell in darkness from the rock recorded, like the sand grain of an hour-glass, some change in Marianson. "I not care for anybody, me," had been her boast when she tantalized soldiers on the village street. Her gurgle of laughter, and the hair blowing on her temples from under the blanket she drew around her face, worked havoc in Mackinac.

Marianson saw on the cave's rough wall a vision of her boat carrying him away. Her own little craft, the sail of which she knew how to trim her bird, her flier, her food-winner was to become her robber. "When the war is over," she ventured, "then you might come back." He began to explain difficulties like an honest lad, and she stopped him. "I do not want to know anything.

"I also," said Marianson. "I have not eaten anything to-day." Her companion dropped on his knees before her and took out of her hands the food she had ready. His face expressed shame and compunction as he fed her himself, offering bites to her mouth with gentle persistence. She laughed the laugh peculiar to herself, and pushed his hand back to his own lips.

A bloom like the rose flushing of early maidenhood came over Marianson with her freedom. Isolated and daring and passionless, she had no conception of the scandal she caused in the minds of those who carried the burdens of the community, but lived like a bird of the air. Wives who bore children and kept the pot boiling found it hard to see her tiptoeing over cares which swallowed them.

I know every rock, every bend of the shore. The pull back around the island will be hardest, if there is not enough wind." "I go with you," decided the boy. "But you gave me your promise to do exactly as I bade you. I am older than you," said Marianson. "I know what is best, and that is that you remain here until I come. Swear to me that you will."

The appealing and thankful eyes of the boy were closed almost as soon as he crept upon the robe and his head sunk in its comfortable pillow. Marianson braced her back against the wall and dropped her hands at her sides. Occasionally she glanced at the low rim of light. No Indian could enter without lying flat. She had little dread of the Sioux.

They would be obliged to take the oath of allegiance to England, or leave the island. Michael Dousman, yet held in the enemy's camp, was fiercely accused of bringing the English upon them. No, Marianson could not go to the village, or even to the dock. Everybody offered her food. A boat she did not ask for. The high cobwebby openings of the distillery looked on a blank night sky.

"There are the women and children and men even poor voyageurs for them to kill first." She gasped, "Is it war?" "Yes, it is war." "I never have seen war. Why did you come here?" "I did not want to, mademoiselle, and I deserted. That is why the Indian was sent after me." "Do not call me mademoiselle. I am Marianson Bruelle, the widow of André Chenier.

I want you to take my boat." He put the cup down and seized her hands and kissed them. She crouched against the cave's side, her eyes closed. If he was only grateful to her for bread and shelter and means of escape, it was little enough she received, but his warm touch and his lips on her palms for he kissed her palms made her none the less dizzy. "Listen to me," said Marianson.