For my own part, I drew a light sledge, of which I had myself directed the construction, that it might be comfortable for Yvonne. It _was_ comfortable, with a back and arms, and well lined with blankets. But she chose rather, for the most of the journey, to walk beside me, secretly proud to show her activity and endurance. It was Mother Pêche who, under strenuous protest, chiefly occupied my sledge. Her protests were vain enough; for Yvonne told her quietly that if she would not let herself be taken care of she would not trust her to face the Quebec journey, but would leave her behind at Jemseg. Though the old dame was a witch, Yvonne had the will to have her way; and protest ended. As we marched, a little aside from the main body, Yvonne now laying her mittened hand upon my arm, and now drawing with me upon the sledge-rope, we had exhaustless themes of converse, but also seasons for that revealing silence when the great things get themselves uttered between two souls. There were some practical matters, however, not without importance, which silence was not competent to discuss. “Do you know any one at the Jemseg settlement, Paul?” she chanced to ask me, that first day of our marching. “Yes,” said I, with significance, taking merciless advantage of the question, “I know an excellent priest, dear heart!” She reddened, and turned upon me deep eyes of reproach. But I was not abashed. “Am I too precipitate, sweet?” I asked. “But do not think so. I know you will not. Consider all the strangeness of the situation, most dear, and give me the right to guard you, to keep you, to show openly my reverence and my love.” As she did not reply, it was clear enough that she found my reasoning cogent. I went on, with a kind of singing elation in my brain: “Truly, in my eyes, you are my wife now, as—do you remember?—I dared to call you that night as we came over the ridge, I to prison, you to—But no! I will not think of that. In deed and in truth, dear, I believe that God joined together us two, inalienably and forever, not months ago, but years ago—that day in the orchard, when our spirits met in our eyes. The material part of us was slow in awaking to the comprehension of that mystery, but”— “Speak for yourself, Paul,” she interrupted, with tantalizing suggestion. I stopped short, forgetting all my eloquence. “And you loved me then—and knew it!” I exclaimed, in a voice poignant with the realization of lost years. She came very close against my side, and held my arm tightly, as she said, in a voice ‘twixt mocking and caressing: “I think I _might_ have known it, Paul, had you helped me the least little bit—had the material part of you, let us say, been the least bit quicker of comprehension.” She forbore to hint at all that might have been different; but the thought of it kept me long silent. On the next day, about sunset, we reached the Jemseg settlement. That same day Yvonne became my wife. Chapter XXXVIII