And I laugh at the absurdity of the dream.
"To think of dreaming that Hortense would be here—would be in the northland—Hortense, the little queen, who never would let me tell her——"
"Tell her what?" asks the face.
"Hah! What a question! There is only one thing in all this world to tell her!"
And I laughed again till I thought there must be some elf scrambling among the rafters of that smothery ceiling. It seemed so absurd to be thrilled with love of Hortense with the breath of the wolves yet hot in one's face!
"The wolves got Godefroy," I would reason, "how didn't they get me? How did I get away? What was that smell of fur—"
Then some one was throwing fur robes from the couch. The phantom Hortense kneeled at the pillow.
"There are no wolves—it was only the robe," she says.
"And I suppose you will be telling me there are no Indians up there among the rafters?"
"Give me the candle. Go away, Le Borgne! Leave me alone with him," says the face in the gloom. "Look," says the shadow, "I am Hortense!"