She looked me in the eyes, to read if I told the whole truth.
"You have come with news!" she cried. "I understand you now. Tell me all—I can bear it—I see; you have prepared me. She is coming. Where is my husband?"
"Yes," I said. "She is coming. She is with her father; they will soon be here."
Her eyes swept the water, but the boat was hidden under the rail. I went to the side, reached down and took up little Marie from her father's hands, and brought her to her mother.
No need to describe that scene. Madame Cambon's now was a quiet, restrained emotion. She shed some tears, but there was no violence. And at last she came to talk of gratitude, and we had to cut off her speech. That task fell to Ray.
"You don't know what you're doing," he said. "You're making us ashamed of all the fun we had. And I want to tell you of the bee I turned loose in one voodoo fellow's bonnet."
And in a minute Ray had her laughing.
Monsieur Cambon told us how Madame's condition made it imperative that they follow us in our search for Marie. He said, "We must go, she insisted, if only to be near."
The Cambons were destined to leave us on the following day, and to carry Melie Brill with them on the steamer to Jamaica. But in the meantime we awaited the coming of that portion of our party left behind up in the foothills.
It was long after dark had come that we heard the call of Robert on the beach opposite. Ray and I hurried the boat to shore, and took on Robert, Norris, Carlos and Melie Brill. And they had a story to tell.