He
pointed to the more coarsely written pages under Jean's hand. "And
that--that--is why it could not signify that Melisse has done up her
hair." He rose to his feet, straining to keep his voice even, and
gathered up the papers so that they shot back into the little
cylinder-shaped roll again. "Now do you understand?"
"I understand," replied Jean in a low voice, but his eyes glittered
like dancing dragon-flies as he raised his elbows slowly from the
table and stretched his arms above his head. "I understand, Jan
Thoreau, and I praise the blessed Virgin that it was Jean de Gravois
who killed the missioner out upon the ice of Lac Bain!"
"But the other," persisted Jan, "the other, which says that I--"
"Stop!" cried Jean sharply. He came around the table and seized Jan's
hands in the iron grip of his lithe, brown fingers. "That is something
for you to forget. It means nothing--nothing at all, Jan Thoreau! Does
any one know but you and me?"
"No one. I intended that some day Melisse and her father should know;
but I waited too long. I waited until I was afraid, until the horror
of telling her frightened me. I made myself forget, burying it deeper
each year, until to-day--on the mountain--"
"And to-day, in this cabin, you will forget again, and you will bury
it so deep that it will never come back.
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