They stood in silence and looked into each other's eyes as if void of speech, of motion, held by the mighty yearning that must look and look with insatiable intensity, the half unreal reality of the moment.
And then the stopped breath in the girl's throat caught itself with a little sound that broke the spell.
The man sprang forward and took her in his arms, not passionately, strongly, as he had done once before, but with a love so high, so chastened, so humble that it gentled his touch to reverence.
“I have come, Maren,” he said brokenly; “I have followed you to the land you sought. Maid of my heart! My soul!”
Without words, without question, she yielded herself to his embrace, lifted her face to him and gave into his keeping that which was his from the beginning.
“Mother Mary! I thank Thee!” he heard her whisper, and when he loosed her to look once more into her level eyes, they were dim with tears.
Night had fallen on the Athabasca when they passed out of the wood across the field, and they walked together hand in hand.
A great round moon was rising over the eastern forest, silvering the hills with shining crowns.
Peace brooded on the world.