Peggy sat down in the window, facing them, the dormer alcove making a
tunnel through which she could watch like a spider; though she lounged
indifferently against the frame, and turned toward the water streets and
storm-drenched half houses which the moon now plainly revealed. The
northwest wind set her teeth with its chill, and ripples of froth chased
each other up the roof at her.
"The water is still rising," remarked Peggy.
"Look, Peggy," begged Angelique, "and see if Colonel Menard and my
father are coming back with the boat."
"It is too soon," said Rice.
"Perhaps Colonel Menard will never come back," suggested Peggy. "It was
a bad sign when the screech-owl screeched in the old Jesuit College."
"But the storm is over now. The water is not washing over the house."
"The moon shows plenty of whitecaps. It is rough."
"As long as this wind lasts the water will be boisterous," said Rice.
"But Colonel Menard no more minds rough weather than a priest carrying
the sacrament. He is used to the rivers.
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