Sunday at noon
Bethink you who know what warm hearts beat inside rough buckskin whether those voyageurs were her slaves or no ! The wind was blowing ; Mistress Hortense 's hair tossed in a way to make a man swear -LRB- vows , not oaths -RRB- , and Allemand said that I paddled worse than any green hand of a first week . At the Habitation we disembarked after nightfall to conceal our movements from the English . After her arrival , none of us caught a glimpse of Mistress Hortense except of a Sunday at noon , but of her presence there was proof enough . Did voices grow loud in the mess-room ? A hand was raised . Some one pointed to the far door , and the voices fell .