“Yes, I do not seem to change,” said he simply. “I hope I shall be able to carry my burden and to hold my trail.”
“Fie! I will not have such talk on a morning like this.”
Fearlessly she reached out her hand to his, which lay upon the table. She smiled at him, but he looked down, the lean fingers of his own hand not trembling nor responding.
If she sensed the rigidity of the muscles which held his fingers outward, at least she feared it not. If she felt the repression which kept him silent, at least she feared it not. Her intuitions told her at last that the danger was gone. His hand did not close on hers.
She raised her cup and saluted laughingly.
“A good journey, Meriwether Lewis,” said she, “and a happy return from it! Cast away such melancholy—you will forget all this!”
“I ask you not to wound me more than need be. I am hard to die. I can carry many wounds, but they may pain me none the less.”
“Forgive me, then,” she said, and once more her small hand reached out toward him. “I would not wound you. I asked you only to remember me as——”
“As——”