Under the Andes Part 44

Civilization places the temple of life in the soul or the heart, as she speaks through the mouth of the preacher or the poet; but let civilization go for four or five days without anything to eat and see what happens. The organ is vulgar, but its voice is loud. I need not name it.

In five minutes Harry returned, dragging two more of the creatures at his heels. In half an hour there were a dozen of them lying in a heap at the edge of the water.

"That's all," he announced, panting heavily from his exertions. "The rest have taken to the woods, which, I imagine, is quite a journey from here. You ought to see our friend--the one who couldn't make his eyes behave. They've eaten him full of holes. He's the most awful mess--sickening beast. He didn't have a bone in him--all crumpled up like an accordion. Utterly spineless."

"And who, in the name of goodness, do you think is going to eat all that?" I demanded, pointing to the heap of bodies.

Harry grinned.

"I don't know. I was so excited at the very idea of a square meal that I didn't know when to stop. I'd give five fingers for a fire and some salt. Just a nickel's worth of salt. Now, you lie down and sleep while I cut these things up, and then I'll take a turn at it myself?"

He brought me one of the hides for a pillow, and I lay back as gently as possible that I might not awaken Desiree. Her head and shoulders rested against my body as she lay peacefully sleeping.

I was awakened by Harry's hand tugging at my arm. Rising on my elbows, I demanded to know how long I had slept.

"Six or seven hours," said Harry. "I waited as long as I could. Keep a lookout."

Desiree stirred uneasily, but seemed to be still asleep. I sat up, rubbing my eyes. The heap of bodies had disappeared; no wonder Harry was tired! I reproached myself for having slept so long.

Harry had arranged himself a bed that was really comfortable with the skins of his kill.

"That is great stuff," I heard him murmur wearily; then all was still.

I sat motionless, stiff and numb, but afraid to move for fear of disturbing Desiree.

Presently she stirred again, and, bending over her, I saw her eyes slowly open. They met my own with a curious, steadfast gaze--she was still half asleep.

"Is that you, Paul?" she murmured.

"Yes."

"I am glad. I seem to feel--what is it?"

"I don't know, Desiree. What do you mean?"

"Nothing--nothing. Oh. it feels so good--good--to have you hold me like this."

"Yes?" I smiled.

"But, yes. Where is Harry?"

"Asleep. Are you hungry?"

"Yes--no. Not now. I don't know why. I want to talk. What has happened?"

I told her of everything that had occurred since she had swooned; she shuddered as memory returned, but forgot herself in my attempt at a humorous description of Harry's valor as a hunter of food.

"You don't need to turn up your nose," I retorted to her expressive grimace; "you ate some of the stuff yourself."

There was a silence; then suddenly Desiree's voice came:

"Paul--" She hesitated and stopped.

"Yes."

"What do you think of me?"

"Do you want a lengthy review?" I smiled.

What a woman she was! Under those circ.u.mstances, and amid those surroundings, she was still Desiree Le Mire.

"Don't laugh at me," she said. "I want to know. I have never spoken of what I did that time in the cavern--you know what I mean. I am sorry now. I suppose you despise me."

"But you did nothing," I objected. "And you wouldn't. You were merely amusing yourself."

She turned on me quickly with a flash of her old fire.

"Don't play with me!" she burst out. "My friend, you have never yet given me a serious word."

"Nor any one else," I answered. "My dear Desiree, do you not know that I am incapable of seriousness? Nothing in the world is worth it."

"At least, you need not pretend," she retorted. "I meant once for you to die. You know it. And since you pretend not to understand me, I ask you--these are strange words from my lips--will you forgive me?"

"There is nothing to forgive."

"My friend, you are becoming dull. An evasive answer should always be a witty one. Must I ask you again?"

"That--depends," I answered, hardly knowing what to say.

"On--"

"On whether or not you were serious, once upon a time, when you made a--shall we call it a confession? If you were, I offended you in my own conceit, but let us be frank. I thought you were acting, and I played my role. I do not yet believe that you were; I am not conceited enough to think it possible."

"I do not say," Desiree began; then she stopped and added hastily: "But that is past. I shall not tell you that again. Perhaps I forgot myself. Perhaps it was a pretty play. You have not answered me."

I looked at her. Strange and terrible as her experiences and sufferings had been, she had lost little of her beauty. Her face was rendered only the more delicate by its pallor. Her white and perfect body, only half seen in the half-darkness, conveyed a sense of the purest beauty with no hint of immodesty.

But I was moved not by what I saw, but by what I knew. I had admired her always as Le Mire; but her bravery, her hardihood, her sympathy for others under circ.u.mstances when any other woman would have been thinking only of herself--had these awakened in my breast a feeling stronger than admiration?

I did not know. But my voice trembled a little as I said: "I need not answer you, Desiree. I repeat that there is nothing to forgive. You sought revenge, then sacrificed it; but still revenge is yours."

She looked at me for a moment in silence, then said slowly: "I do not understand you."

For reply I took her hand in my own from where it lay idly on my knee, and, carrying it to my lips, pressed a long kiss on the top of each of the slender white fingers. Then I held the hand tight between both of mine as I asked simply, looking into her eyes:

"Do you understand me now?"

Another silence.