That brought me to my manhood. I went to her and looked down at her brown head; the brave brown head that she had carried so high through all the terror and unkindness that had come to her. I touched her hair with my lips, and I grew as quiet as she. "Mary," I said, "it is I who must go away at once before I make trouble for both of us. You are trying to forgive me, but you cannot do it. You may think you have done it, but the time would come when you would look at me in horror, as you looked at Starling. I could stand death better. I know that you cannot forgive me. I knew it at the moment when I gave the signal to attack the camp. You can never forgive me." She lifted her eyes to mine. "I have not forgiven you, monsieur. There is nothing to forgive." I let myself look at her, and all my calmness left me. I shut my teeth and tried to hold myself in bounds. "Mary!" I groaned, "be careful! Be careful! It is not your pity I want. If you forgive me for pity"---- I could not finish, for she gave a little sob. She turned to me. "It is you who marry for pity," she cried, with her eyes brimming. "I could not. I would not. And I have nothing to forgive; nothing, nothing. I would not have had you do anything else. I was proud of you. Oh, so proud, so proud! If you had done anything else I could never have---- Monsieur, do you love me--a little?" I took her in my arms. I held her close to me and looked into her eyes. I looked deep into them and into the soul of her. I saw understanding of me, acceptance of me as I was. I saw belief, heart hunger, love. And then I laid my lips on hers. She was my wife. She was the woman God had made for me, the woman who had trusted me through more than death, and who had come to me through blood and agony and tears. She was my own, and I had her there alive. I took her to myself. CHAPTER XXXIII TO US AND TO OUR CHILDREN Hours passed and the flap of Cadillac's tent was not lifted. Outside in the camp the drum beat for sunset. The woman heard it. She pushed back her soft waves of hair, and a shadow fell across the light that had been in her eyes. "I had forgotten," she cried, with a soft tremble of wonder in her voice. "We have both forgotten. We promised the commandant that we would talk about your duty to the tribes." I kissed her for her forgetfulness. "Talk is unnecessary," I whispered. "I have made up my mind." But the drum's note had recalled her to what lay outside the tent walls. She sighed a little and bent to me as I sat at her feet. "Do not make up your mind yet," she begged with a curious, tender reluctance. "Let me tell you something first." I pressed her hand between my own. "I cannot listen. I can only feel. Tell me, when did you love me first?"