'The storm's coming,' he muttered, thinking on the night of Muskwah's end, 'It's the only way such a day could end.'
She was not gone more than a few minutes, yet when she returned her husband was standing near the window in a pitiful state of alarm. As she came questioningly to him, he clutched her arm with the weak action of the child who seeks protection from invisible dangers.
'There was a face—a white, revengeful face.'
'Where?' she asked, quickly with a strange glance. 'At the window. Only for a moment. The eyes were terrible. There was death in them. Didn't you hear me call out?'
Marie advanced to the open window, where a few mosquitoes sang their mournful, high-pitched note. There was nothing, except the soft lightning playing incessantly through the hot air. 'It was your imagination,' she said, with a certain wondering contempt. 'Come and see for yourself.'
But he did not stir. 'I hear footsteps. There are men coming through the grass.'
'Well, the prairie is public. People have a right to pass if they like. Ciel! Get rid of this folly of yours.'
She drew him to a chair, then seated herself beside him, and opened the single vilely printed sheet published in Garry at that time under the title of newspaper. That evening it was larger than usual.
He was completely beneath her influence, so obeyed her light touch, casting many furtive glances in the direction of the window, which was constantly flooded in a pale blue light. The thunder now commenced to roll and roar through the stifling night.
Outside, between the fence and the bush maple, still crouched the dark figure, never shifting her position, and always gazing into that room. Occasionally she could even hear a portion of the conversation.