As he spoke, so strange a look passed over his friend's face that William Clark swiftly put out a hand.
"What is it, Merne? Pardon me! Did she--not wait?"
His companion looked at him gravely.
"She married, something like three years ago. She is the wife of Mr. Alston, a wealthy planter of the Carolinas, a friend of her father and a man of station. A good marriage for her--for him--for both."
The sadness of his face spoke more than his words to his warmest friend, and left them both silent for a time. William Clark ceased breaking bark between his fingers and flipping away the pieces.
"Well, in my own case," said he at length, "I have no ties to cut. 'Tis as well--we shall have no faces of women to trouble us on our trails out yonder. They don't belong there, Merne--the ways of the trappers are best. But we must not talk too much of this," he added. "I'll see you yet well settled down as a Virginia squire--your white hair hanging down on your shoulders and a score of grandchildren about your knees to hamper you."
William Clark meant well--his friend knew that; so now he smiled, or tried to smile.
"Merne," the red-headed one went on, throwing an arm across his friend's shoulders, "pass over this affair--cut it out of your heart. Believe me, believe me, the friendship of men is the only one that lasts. We two have eaten from the same pannikin, slept under the same bear-robe before now--we still may do so. And look at the adventures before us!"
"You are a boy, Will," said Meriwether Lewis, actually smiling now, "and I am glad you are and always will be; because, Will, I never was a boy--I was born old. But now," he added sharply, as he rose, "a pleasant journey to us both--and the longer the better!"