One step in advance of the others of the throng stood Felix Lapierre, the bridegroom.
“How many?” asked the chief.
“Twenty,” said Felix. “And all very much happy to do the good service.”
The priest smiled into the amazed eyes of the girl. “For your conveyance? Ah no, mam’selle. For your good help on the drive. They are rivermen—the best. Felix Lapierre leads them and you shall see for yourself what a king of the white water he is. He will be your right-hand man on the drive. It is all very fine, eh, mam’selle?”
She was staring from face to face, overwhelmed. She could not reply.
“We talk it over—him and me—last night,” said Nicola, indicating the priest by a respectful bow. “It’s for my brother, and the blood of my brother.” He bowed to her.
“And all so very happy,” repeated Felix. His black eyes sparkled and he flung up his hands in the gay spirit of emprise. “You must not care because some have run away. They would not be good in a crew if they feel that way now. We feel good. We shall work for you; we are your men.”
The big matter, this astounding making good of her forces, this rallying of volunteers in such chivalrous and unquestioning fashion—she found herself unable to handle the situation in her thoughts or treat it with spoken words just then. But the other—the human thing——
“It’s—it’s the honeymoon,” she stammered. “It will be taking you away from your wife.”
“She’s my girl,” put in Nicola. “She tells him to go.”