“If Indians have come on the island they will kill all the cattle.”
“There are the women and children and men—even poor voyageurs—for them to kill first.”
She gasped, “Is it war?”
“Yes, it is war.”
“I never have seen war. Why did you come here?”
“I did not want to, mademoiselle, and I deserted. That is why the Indian was sent after me.”
“Do not call me mademoiselle. I am Marianson Bruelle, the widow of André Chenier. Our houses will be burned, and our gardens trampled, and our boats stolen.”
“Not if the fort surrenders.”
Again they harkened to the outside world in suspense. The deserter had expected to hear cannon before sunlight so slowly crept under the cave's lip. It was as if they sat within a colossal skull, broad between the ears but narrowing towards the top, with light coming through the parted mouth. Accustomed to the soft twilight, the two could see each other, and the woman covertly put her dress in order while she talked.
More than fearlessness, even a kind of maternal passion, moved her. She searched in the back of the cave and handed her strange guest food, and gathered him a birch cup of water from the dripping rock. The touch of his fingers sent a new vital thrill through her. Two may talk together under the same roof for many years, yet never really meet; and two others at first speech are old friends. She did not know this young voyageur, yet she began to claim him.