Within the chapel, drops from the cracked roof still fell in succession, like invisible fingers playing scales along the boards. Outside was the roar of the landlocked sea, and the higher music of falling rain. Barbe let her furtive eyes creep up the sill and find Tonty’s large back on which she looked with abashed but gratified smiles.
“Mademoiselle,” he begged without turning, “forgive what I have said.”
“Certainly, monsieur,” she responded. “What was it that you said?”
“Nothing, mademoiselle, nothing.”
“Then, monsieur, I forgive you for saying nothing.”
Tonty, in his larger perplexity at having made such a confession without La Salle’s leave, missed her sting.
Nothing more was said through the window. Barbe moved back, and the stalwart soldier kept his stern posture; until La Salle, whose approach had been hidden by chimney and mission house, burst abruptly into view. As he came up, both he and Tonty opened their arms. Strong breast to strong breast, cheek touching cheek, spare olive-hued man and dark rich-blooded man hugged each other.
Barbe’s convent lessons of embroidery and pious lore had included no heathen tales of gods or heroes. Yet to her this sight was like a vision of two great cloudy figures stalking across the world and meeting with an embrace.