An hour before sunset, however, misfortune, in defiance of the saintly name which Doña Julia had bestowed upon their primitive vessel, had overtaken the fugitives. Several logs, disaffected through the treachery of rotten cord, had broken away from the sides. Fearing the complete disintegration of his raft, de Sancerre had, with some difficulty, succeeded in making a landing and in removing his precious gun and stores to the shelter of the underbrush. He had hardly completed his task, and drawn his unreliable craft up to a safe mooring upon the shore, when the unwelcome storm had begun to fulfil its threats.
“I fear,” exclaimed de Sancerre, drawing Doña Julia close to his side, as they strove to shelter themselves from the rain beneath the overhanging bushes on the river-bank—“I fear our supper will be cold and wet to-night. I now begin to understand just why those white-robed children of the sun should worship fire. You tremble, ma chère. Tell me, are you cold?”
“No, no!” exclaimed Doña Julia, her face close to his to defeat the uproar of the rain. “The storm will pass. Ah, señor, what cause we have for gratitude!”
Somewhere in the forest at their backs the lightning struck a tree and their eyes rested for an instant upon a river made of flames, which a crash of angry thunder extinguished at their birth.
“Mother Mary, save us!” exclaimed the girl, while the hand which de Sancerre held trembled for an instant in his grasp.
“The worst has passed, sweetheart,” he murmured, reassuringly, bending down until his lips touched hers. “Listen! The rain falls lighter upon the leaves above us now. These sudden storms in southern lands are like the—”
“Si, señor?”
“Like the anger of a Spaniard, I had said,” confessed de Sancerre.
“Mayhap,” murmured the girl, her eyes meeting his despite the blackness of the gloom. “And think you, sir, they’re like a Spaniard’s love?”
“Ma foi, how can I tell?” he cried, laughingly. “You, señora, must guide me to the truth. But listen!” he went on, his voice growing earnest, as, forgetful for the moment of the storm and perils of the night, he gazed down upon the upturned face of a maiden who had shown to him the unsuspected depths of his own heart, “if your love for me is but a passing fancy, born of solitude and taught to speak by chance, I beg of you to pray the saints that I may die to-night. To live to lose your love— I’d choose a thousand deaths instead!”