He knelt
silent, motionless, until her hands left his own.
"I am to take you to Fort o' God," he said, fighting to keep the
tremble of joy out of his voice. "And you--you must guide me."
"It is far up the Churchill," she replied, understanding the
question he intended. "It is two hundred miles from the Bay."
He put his strength into his paddle for ten minutes, and then ran
the canoe into shore fully half a mile above the sand-bar. He
stepped out into water up to his knees.
"We must risk a little time here to attend to your injured ankle,"
he explained. "Then you can arrange yourself comfortably among
these robes in the bow. Shall I carry you?"
"You can--help," said Jeanne. She gave him her hand and made an
effort to rise. Instantly she sank back with a sob of pain.
It was strange that her pain should fill him with a wonderful joy.
He knew that she was suffering, that she could not walk or stand
alone. And yet, back at the camp, she had risen in her torture and
had come to his rescue. She could not bear her own weight now, but
then she had run to him and had fought for him. The knowledge that
she had done this, and for him, filled him with an exquisite
sensation.
"I must carry you," he said, speaking to her with the calm
decision that he might have voiced to a little child.
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