Slowly, with bowed head, in the midst of a strained silence, she traversed the length of the long room, the cynosure of all eyes. When almost at the altar she raised her eyes to the man who awaited her there.
Her quick, indrawn breath was almost a gasp, and Appleton felt her arm tremble upon his.
He stood waiting for her—this man into whose keeping she was giving her life—exactly as she had seen him at the time of their first meeting in the North country when he stood, big and bearded, in the gathering dusk, framed in the doorway of the little office.
In one swift glance she saw that every detail was the same, from the high-laced boots to the embroidered hunting-shirt open at the throat—only his eyes were different—there was no pain, now, in the gray eyes that blazed eagerly into her own—only happiness, and the burning passion of love.
And then her uncle retired, and she stood alone with the man, facing the priest. She could hear the voice of the little pink priest and of the big man at her side, and as in a dream she found herself repeating the words of the ritual.
She knew that a ring was being placed upon her finger, and she was a wife. And that the priest, in solemn voice, with outstretched hands, was extending them his blessing.
The voice hesitated—stopped.
In the rear of the room the door was thrown violently open and banged loudly against the log wall. There was a confused scuffling of feet and a scraping of heavy benches as the men craned their necks toward the entrance.
Involuntarily Ethel turned, and there, gliding swiftly toward her up the blanket-carpeted aisle, was the most picturesquely beautiful woman she had ever seen.
Wide-eyed she stared at the newcomer. Her face went deathly white, and the heart within her breast turned to ice, for instinctively she knew, by the wild, intense beauty of the woman, that she stood face to face with the Indian girl—the Jeanne of Bill Carmody's whispered words!