"No. She was his 'little bird', his 'wood-dove' to him; and to her he was 'mon maître', always that—'my master' you say in English which I have forgotten, so long I am in the woods. They were so happy—it was always so with them."
There was a few minutes of silence, then Jamie spoke.
"Has Mr. Ewart ever spoken to you about what you told us that night in camp, André—about that 'forest love'?"
"No, the seignior has never spoken, but,"—he puffed vigorously at his pipe,—"he has no need to speak of it; he thinks it now."
"Why, now?" There was eager curiosity in Jamie's voice, and I knew well in what direction his thoughts were headed. I smiled to myself, and listened as eagerly as he for André's answer.
"I have eyes that see; it is again the 'forest love' with him—"
"Again?" Jamie interrupted him; his voice was suddenly a sharp staccato. "What do you mean by that?"
"I mean what I say. The forest knows its own. She has come again; and my old eyes, that still see like the hawk, are glad at the sight of her—and of him. Have I not prayed all these years that Our Lady of the Snows might bless her—and her child?" There was no mistaking the emphasis on the last words.
"André,"—Jamie's voice dropped to an excited whisper, but I caught it,—"you mean that?"
"I mean that," he said.