“Say, mad’mo’selle,” he said, “this here De Launay, now; he’s sure enough your husband?”
“Of course.”
“But he ain’t noways a regular, honest-to-God husband, is he?”
“We are married,” said Solange. “Is that not enough?”
“I reckon so. Still, there’s Dave and me—we would sure admire to know how this feller stands with you.”
Solange looked at him, and he found difficulty, as usual, in concentrating on what she said or on anything but the fathomless eyes. Yet he comprehended that she was speaking, that she was smiling kindly, and yet that speech and smile were both destructive of his immature romance.
“He stands—not at all, monsieur, except as an instrument. But—that way—he and I are bound together forever.”
It was in her eyes that Sucatash read meaning. Somewhere in their depths he found a knowledge denied even to her, perhaps. He heaved a profound sigh and turned to yell at Dave.
“Get a wiggle on, old-timer! You an’ me are just hired hands on this pasear. Madame de Launay will be gettin’ hungry before we make camp.”
Dave swung quickly around, catching the slight emphasis on the strange name. Over the backs of the pack horses his and his companion’s eyes met. 210 Then he turned back and jogged up the pace a trifle.