"Welcome, my friend. My uncle is right; we have been remiss—"
Her voice trailed off, as her eyes fell on Father Launoy. He was staring, not at her, but at the Indian; curiously at first, then with dawning suspicion.
Involuntarily she glanced again towards Dominique. He, too, slowly moved his gaze from her face and fastened it on the Indian.
He knew.… Father Launoy knew.… Oh, when would the boats push off?
They pushed off and fell into their stations at length, amid almost interminable shouting of orders and cross-shouting, pulling and backing of oars. She had stolen one look at Bateese.… He did not suspect… but, in the other boat, they knew.
Her uncle's voice ran on like a brook. She could not look up, for fear of meeting her lover's eyes—yes, her lover's! She was reckless now. They knew. She would deceive herself no longer. She was base—base. He stood close, and in his presence she was glad— fiercely, deliciously, desperately. She, betrayed in all her vows, was glad. The current ran smoothly. If only, beyond the next ledge, might lie annihilation!
The current ran with an oily smoothness. They were nearing the Roches Fendues. Dominique's boat led.
A clear voice began to sing, high and loud, in a ringing tenor:
"Malbrouck s'en va-t'en guerre:
Mironton, mironton, mirontaine…"
"Malbrouck s'en va-t'en guerre:
Mironton, mironton, mirontaine…"