Gaspard touched his shoulder. He rose and went with him into the gloomy cabin. They ate and drank in silence. When the meal was finished they sat smoking till night fell. Then the pilot lit a fire, and drew his rough chair to the door. Though it was only late summer, it was cold in the shade of the cliff. Long time they sat. Now and again Pierre intercepted the quick, elusive glance of his silent host. Once the pilot took the pipe from his mouth, and leaned his hands on his knees as if about to speak. But he did not.
Pierre saw that the time was ripe for speech. So he said, as though he knew something: “It is a long time since it happened?”
Gaspard, brooding, answered: “Yes, a long time—too long.” Then, as if suddenly awakened to the strangeness of the question, he added, in a startled way: “What do you know? Tell me quick what you know.”
“I know nothing except what comes to me here, pilot,”—Pierre touched his forehead, “but there is a thing—I am not sure what. There was a woman—perhaps a child; there is something on the shore; there is a hidden point of rock in the bay; and you are waiting for a ship—for the ship, and it does not come—isn’t that so?”
Gaspard got to his feet, and peered into Pierre’s immobile face. Their eyes met.
“Mon Dieu!” said the pilot, his hand catching the smoke away from between them, “you are a droll man; you have a wonderful mind. You are cold like ice, and still there is in you a look of fire.”
“Sit down,” answered Pierre quietly, “and tell me all. Perhaps I could think it out little by little; but it might take too long—and what is the good?”
Slowly Gaspard obeyed. Both hands rested on his knees, and he stared abstractedly into the fire. Pierre thrust forward the tobacco-bag. His hand lifted, took the tobacco, and then his eyes came keenly to Pierre’s. He was about to speak.... “Fill your pipe first,” said the half-breed coolly. The old man did so abstractedly. When the pipe was lighted, Pierre said: “Now!”
“I have never told the story, never—not even to Pere Corraine. But I know, I have it here”—he put his hand to his forehead, as did Pierre—“that you will be silent.” Pierre nodded.
“She was fine to see. Her eyes were black as beads; and when she laugh it was all music. I was so happy! We lived on the island of the Aux Coudres, far up there at Quebec. It was a wild place. There were smugglers and others there—maybe pirates. But she was like a saint of God among all. I was lucky man. I was pilot, and took ships out to sea, and brought them in safe up the gulf. It is not all easy, for there are mad places. Once or twice when a wild storm was on I could not land at Cap Martin, and was carried out to sea and over to France.... Well, that was not so bad; there was plenty to eat and drink, nothing to do. But when I marry it was differen’. I was afraid of being carried away and leave my wife—the belle Mamette—alone long time. You see, I was young, and she was ver’ beautiful.”