The little woman writhed with pain, and that brought the dreamer to his senses again. It passed, and she, pale, fair, beautiful, with her hair about her like folds of sable fur, she put out her round white arms to the great half-grizzly, half-baby, by her side. She was still a long time then; then she called him pretty names, and she cried as if her heart would break.
"Sandy, I told you it was not best, it was not right, it would not do, that you would be sorry some day, and that you would blame and upbraid me, and that the men would laugh at you and at me. But you would not be put off. Do you not remember how I shut myself up and kept away from you, and would not see you, and how you kept watch, and sent round, and would see me whether or no?"
He now remembered. And what then? Had he repented? On the contrary, he had never loved her half so truly as now. His heart was too full to dare to speak.
"Do you not remember that when I told you all this would happen, that you said it could not happen? That, happen what would, no man should mock or laugh or reprove, and live? Well, now, Sandy dear, it will happen. I have done you wrong. I now want to tell you to take back your promise. That is best."
The man rose up. The place where he had hid his face was wet as rain.
"Sandy, Sandy, can we cross the mountains now?"
The little lady lay trembling in her bed with her hands covering her face.
Then she put down her hands and looked up into the face of her husband.
"Sandy, leave me!"
She sprang up in bed as she said this, as if inspired with a new thought.