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Title: Flower of the North

Author: James Oliver Curwood

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FLOWER OF THE NORTH

A MODERN ROMANCE

BY JAMES OLIVER CURWOOD

AUTHOR OF THE DANGER TRAIL, PHILIP STEELS, ETC.





TO MY COMRADES OF THE GREAT NORTHERN WILDERNESS, THOSE FAITHFUL
COMPANIONS WITH WHOM I HAVE SHARED THE JOYS AND HARDSHIPS OF THE
"LONG SILENT TRAIL," AND ESPECIALLY TO THAT "JEANNE D'ARCAMBAL."
WHO WILL FIND IN HERSELF THE HEROINE OF THIS STORY, THE WRITER
GRATEFULLY DEDICATES THIS VOLUME.

DETROIT. MICHIGAN

JANUARY, 1912





FLOWER OF THE NORTH





I


"Such hair! Such eyes! Such color! Laugh if you will, Whittemore,
but I swear that she was the handsomest girl I've ever laid my
eyes upon!"

There was an artist's enthusiasm in Gregson's girlishly sensitive
face as he looked across the table at Whittemore and lighted a
cigarette.

"She wouldn't so much as give me a look when I stared," he added.
"I couldn't help it. Gad, I'm going to make a full-page 'cover' of
her to-morrow for Burke's. Burke dotes on pretty women for the
cover of his magazine. Why, demmit, man, what the deuce are you
laughing at?"

"Not at this particular case, Tom," apologized Whittemore. "But--
I'm wondering--"

His eyes wandered ruminatively about the rough interior of the
little cabin, lighted by a single oil-lamp hanging from a cross-
beam in the ceiling, and he whistled softly.

"I'm wondering," he went on, "if you'll ever strike a place where
you won't see 'one of the most beautiful things on earth.' The
last one was at Rio Piedras, wasn't it, Tom? A Spanish girl, or
was she a Creole? I believe I've got your letter yet, and I'll
read it to you to-morrow. I wasn't surprised. There are pretty
women down in Porto Rico. But I didn't think you'd have the nerve
to discover one up here--in the wilderness."

"She's got them all beat," retorted the artist, flecking the ash
from the tip of his cigarette.

"Even the Valencia girl, eh?"

There was a chuckling note of pleasure in Philip Whittemore's
voice as he leaned half across the table, his handsome face,
bronzed by snow and wind, illumined in the lamp-glow. Gregson, in
strong contrast, with his round, smooth cheeks, slim hands, and
build that was almost womanish, leaned over his side to meet him.
For the twentieth time that evening the two men shook hands.

"Haven't forgotten Valencia, eh?" chuckled the artist, gloatingly.
"Lord, but I'm glad to see you again, Phil. Seems like a century
since we were out raising the Old Ned together, and yet it's less
than three years since we came back from South America. Valencia!
Will we ever forget it? When Burke handed me his first turn-down a
month ago and said, 'Tom, your work begins to show you want a
rest,' I thought of Valencia, and was so confoundedly homesick for
those old days when you and I pretty nearly started a revolution,
and came within an ace of getting our scalps lifted, that I moped
for a week. Gad, do I remember it? You got out by fighting, and I
through a pretty girl."

"And your nerve," chuckled Whittemore, crushing the other's hand.
"That was when I made up my mind you were the nerviest man alive,
Greggy. Did you ever learn what became of Donna Isobel?"

"She appeared twice in Burke's, once as the 'Goddess of the
Southern Republics' and again as 'The Girl of Valencia.' She
married that reprobate of a Carabobo planter, and I believe
they're happy."

"It seems to me there were others," continued Whittemore,
pondering for a moment in mock seriousness. "There was one at Rio
whom you swore would make your fortune if you could get her to sit
for you, and whose husband was on the point of putting six inches
of steel into you for telling her so, when I explained that you
were young and harmless, and a little out of your head--"

"With your fist," cried Gregson, joyously. "Gad, but that was a
mighty blow! I can see that knife now. I was just beginning my
paternoster when--chug!--and down he went! And he deserved it. I
said nothing wrong. In my very best Spanish I asked her if she
would sit for me, and why the devil did he take that as an insult?
And she was beautiful."

"Of course," agreed Whittemore. "If I remember, she was 'the
loveliest creature you had ever seen.' And after that there were
others--a score of them at least, each lovelier than the one
before."

"They make up my life," said Gregson, more seriously than he had
yet spoken. "They're the only thing I can draw and do well. I'd
think an editor was mad if he asked me to do something without a
pretty woman in it. God bless 'em, I hope I'll go on seeing them
forever. When I can't see beauty in woman I want to die."

"And you always want to see it in the superlative degree."

"I insist upon it. If she lacks something, as Donna Isobel wanted
color, I imagine that it is there, and she is perfect! But this
one that I saw to-night is perfect! Now what I want to know is
this, Who the deuce is she!"

--"where can she be found, and will she sit for a 'Burke,' two or
three miscellaneous, and a 'study' for the annual sale," struck in
Whittemore. "Is that it?"

"Exactly. You've a natural ability for hitting the nail on the
head, Phil."

"And Burke told you to take a rest."

Gregson offered his cigarettes.

"Yes, Burke is a good-natured, poetic old soul who has a horror of
spiders, snakes, and sky-scrapers. He said to me: 'Greggy, go and
seek nature in some quiet, secluded place, and forget everything
for a fortnight or two except your clothes and half a dozen cases
of beer.' Rest! Nature! Beer! Think of those cheerful suggestions,
Phil, while I was dreaming of Valencia, of Donna Isobels, and
places where Nature cuts up as though she had been taking
champagne all her life. Gad, your letter came just in time!"

"And I told you little enough in that," said Philip, quickly,
rising and pacing uneasily back and forth across the cabin floor.
"I gave you promise of excitement, and urged you to join me if you
could. And why? Because--"

He turned sharply, and faced Gregson across the table.

"I wanted you to come because the thing that happened down in
Valencia, and that other at Rio, isn't a circumstance to the hell
that's going to cut loose pretty soon up here--and I'm in need of
help. Understand? It's not fun--this time. I'm playing a single
hand in what looks like a losing game. If I ever needed a fighter
in my life I need one now. That's why I sent for you."

Gregson shoved back his chair and rose to his feet. He was a head
shorter than his companion, of almost delicate physique. Yet there
was something in the cold gray-blue of his eyes, a peculiar
hardness of his chin, that compelled one to look at him twice and
rendered first judgment unsafe. His slim fingers closed like steel
about Philip's.

"Now you're coming down to business, Phil," he exclaimed. "I've
been waiting with the patience of Job--or of little Bobby Tuckett,
if you remember him, who began courting Minnie Sheldon seven years
ago--and married her the day after I got your letter. I was too
busy figuring out what you hadn't written to go to the wedding. I
tried to read between the lines, and fell down completely. I've
been thinking all the way up from Le Pas, and I'm still at sea.
You called. I came. What's up?"

"It's going to sound a little mad--at first, Greggy," chuckled
Whittemore, lighting his pipe. "It's going to give your esthetic
tastes a jar. Look here!"

He seized Gregson by the arm and led him to the door.

The cold northern sky was brilliant with stars. The cabin, its
logs half smothered in dying masses of verdure which had climbed
about it during the summer, was built on the summit of one of the
wind-cropped ridges which are called mountains in the far north.
Into that north swept infinite wilderness, white and gray where
the starlit tops of the spruce rose up at their feet, black in the
distance. From somewhere out of it there came the low, weeping
monotone of surf beating on a shore. Philip, with one hand on
Gregson's shoulder, pointed with the other into the lonely
desolation which they were facing.

"There isn't much between us and the Arctic Ocean, Greggy," he
said. "See that light off there, like a great fire that has half a
mind to die out one minute and flares up the next? Doesn't it
remind you of the night we got away from Carabobo, when Donna
Isobel pointed out our way to us, with the moon coming up over the
mountains as a guide? That isn't the moon. It's the aurora
borealis. You can hear the wash of the Bay down there, and if
you're keen you can catch the smell of icebergs. There's Fort
Churchill--a rifle-shot beyond the ridge, asleep. There's nothing
but Hudson's Bay Company's posts, Indian camps, and trappers
between here and civilization, which is four hundred miles down
there. Seems like a quiet and peaceful country, doesn't it?
There's something about it that makes you thrill and wonder if
this isn't the biggest part of the universe after all. Listen!
Hear the Indian dogs wailing down at Churchill! That's the primal
voice in this world, the voice of the wild. Even that beating of
the surf is filled with the same thing, for it's rolling up
mystery instead of history. It is telling what man doesn't know,
and in a language which he cannot understand. You're a beauty
scientist, Greggy. This must sink deep."

"It does," said Gregson. "What the deuce are you getting at,
Phil?"

"I'm arriving gradually and without undue haste to the point,
Greggy. I'm about to tell you why I induced you to join me up
here. I hesitate at the last word. It seems almost brutal, taking
into consideration your philosophy of beauty, to drop from all
this--from that blackness and mystery out there, from Donna
Isobels and pretty eyes, down to--fish."

"Fish!"

"Yes, fish."

Gregson, lighting a fresh cigarette, held the match so that the
tiny flame lighted up his companion's face for a moment.

"Look here," he expostulated, "you haven't got me up here to go--
fishing?"

"Yes--and no," said Philip. "But even if I have--"

He caught Gregson by the arm again, and there was a tightness in
the grip of his fingers which convinced the other that he was
speaking seriously now.

"Do you remember what started the revolution down in Honduras the
second week after we struck Puerto Barrios, Greggy? It was a girl,
wasn't it?"

"Yes, and she wasn't half pretty at that."

"It was less than a girl," went on Philip. "Scene: the palm plaza
at Ceiba. President Belize is drinking wine with his cousin, the
fiancee of General O'Kelly Bonilla, the half Irish, half Latin-
American leader of his forces, and his warmest friend. At a moment
when their corner of the plaza is empty Belize helps himself to a
cousinly kiss. O'Kelly, unperceived, arrives in time to witness
the act. From that moment his friendship for Belize turns to
hatred and jealousy. Within three weeks he has started a
revolution, beats the government forces at Ceiba, chases Belize
from the capital, gets Nicaragua mixed up in the trouble, and
draws three French, two German, and two American war-ships to the
scene. Six weeks after the wine-drinking he is President of the
Republic, en facto. And all of this, Greggy, because of a kiss.
Now, if a kiss can start a revolution, unseat a President, send a
government to smash, what must be the possibilities of a fish?"

"I'm getting interested," said Gregson. "If there's a climax, come
to it, Phil. I admit that there must be enormous possibilities in
--a fish. Go on!"





II


For a moment the two men stood in silence, listening to the sullen
beat of surf beyond the black edge of forest. Then Philip led the
way back into the cabin.

Gregson followed. In the light of the big oil-lamp which hung
suspended from the ceiling he noticed something in Whittemore's
face he had not observed before, a tenseness about the muscles of
his mouth, a restlessness in his eyes, rigidity of jaw, an air of
suppressed emotion which puzzled him. He was keenly observant of
details, and knew that these things had been missing a short time
before. The pleasure of their meeting that afternoon, after a
separation of nearly two years, had dispelled for a time the
trouble which he now saw revealing itself in his companion's face
and attitude, and the lightness of Whittemore's manner in
beginning his explanation for inducing him to come into the north
had helped to complete the mask. There occurred to him, for an
instant, a picture which he had once drawn of Whittemore as he had
known him in certain stirring times still fresh in the memory of
each--a picture of the old, cool, irresistible Whittemore, smiling
in the face of danger, laughing outright at perplexities, always
ready to fight with a good-natured word on his lips. He had drawn
that picture for Burke's, and had called it "The Fighter." Burke
himself had criticized it because of the smile. But Gregson knew
his man. It was Whittemore.

There was a change now. He had grown older, surprisingly older.
There were deeper lines about his eyes. His face was thinner. He
saw, now, that Philip's lightness had been but a passing flash of
his old buoyancy, that the old life and sparkle had gone from him.
Two years, he judged, had woven things into Philip's life which he
could not understand, and he wondered if this was why in all that
time he had received no word from his old college chum.

They had seated themselves at opposite sides of the table, and
from an inside pocket Philip produced a small bundle of papers.
From these he drew forth a map, which he smoothed out under his
hands.

"Yes, there are possibilities--and more, Greggy," he said. "I
didn't ask you up here to help me fight air and moonshine. And
I've promised you a fight. Have you ever seen a rat in a trap with
a blood-thirsty terrier guarding the little door that is about to
be opened? Thrilling sport for the prisoner, isn't it? But when
the rat happens to be human--"

"I thought it was a fish," protested Gregson, mildly. "Pretty soon
you'll be having it a girl in a trap--or at the end of a fish-
line--"

"And if I should?" interrupted Philip, looking steadily at him.
"What if I should say there is a girl--a woman--in this trap--not
only one, but a score, a hundred of them? What then, Greggy?"

"I'd say there was going to be a glorious scrap."

"And so there is, the biggest and most unusual scrap of its kind
you ever heard of, Greggy. It's going to be a queer kind of fight
--and queer fighting. And it's possible--very probable--that you
and I will get lost in the shuffle somewhere. We're two, no more.
And we're going up against forces which would make a dozen South
American revolutions look like thirty cents. More than that, it's
likely we'll be in the wrong locality when certain people rise in
a wrath which a Helen of Troy aroused in another people some
centuries ago. See here--"

He turned the map to Gregson, pointing with his finger.

"See that red line? That's the new railroad to Hudson's Bay. It is
well above Le Pas now, and its builders plan to complete it by
next spring. It is the most wonderful piece of railroad building
on the American continent, Greggy--wonderful because it has been
neglected so long. Something like a hundred million people have
been asleep to its enormous value, and they're just waking up now.
That road, cutting across four hundred miles of wilderness, is
opening up a country half as big as the United States, in which
more mineral wealth will be dug during the next fifty years than
will ever be taken from Yukon or Alaska. It is shortening the
route from Montreal, Duluth, Chicago, and the Middle West to
Liverpool and other European ports by a thousand miles. It means
the making of a navigable sea out of Hudson's Bay, cities on its
shores, and great steel-foundries close to the Arctic Circle--
where there is coal and iron enough to supply the world for
hundreds of years. That's only a small part of what this road
means, Greggy. Two years ago--you remember I asked you to join me
in the adventure--I came up seeking opportunity. I didn't dream
then--"

Whittemore paused, and a flash of his old smile passed over his
face.

"I didn't dream that fate had decreed me to stir up what I'm going
to tell you about, Greggy. I followed the line of the proposed
railroad, looking for chances. All Canada was asleep, or too much
interested in its west, and gave me no competition. I was alone
west of the surveyed line; east of it steel-corporation men had
optioned mountains of iron and another interest had a grip on
coal-fields. Six months I spent among the Indians, French, and
half-breeds. I lived with them, trapped and hunted with them, and
picked up a little Cree and French. The life suited me. I became a
northerner in heart and soul, if not quite yet in full experience.
Clubs and balls and cities grew to be only memories. You know how
I have always hated that hothouse sort of existence, and you know
that same world of clubs and balls and cities has gripped at my
throat, downing me again and again, as though it returned my
sentiment with interest. Up here I learned to hate it more than
ever. I was completely happy. And then--"

He had refolded the map, and drew another from the bundle of
papers. It was drawn in pencil.

"And then, Greggy," he went on, smoothing out this map where the
other had been, "I struck my chance. It fairly clubbed me into
recognizing it. It came in the middle of the night, and I sat up
with a camp-fire laughing at me through the flap in my tent,
stunned by the knockout it had given me. It seemed, at first, as
though a gold-mine had walked up and laid itself down at my feet,
and I wondered how there could be so many silly fools in this
world of ours. Take a look at that map, Greggy. What do you see?"

Gregson had listened like one under a spell. It was one of his
careless boasts that situations could not faze him, that he was
immune to outward betrayals of sensation. This seeming
indifference--his light-toned attitude in the face of most serious
affairs would have made a failure of him in many things. But his
tense interest did not hide itself now. A cigarette remained
unlighted between his fingers. His eyes never took themselves for
an instant from his companion's face. Something that Whittemore
had not yet said thrilled him. He looked at the map.

"There's not much to see," he said, "but lakes and rivers."

"You're right," exclaimed Philip, jumping suddenly from his chair
and beginning to walk back and forth across the cabin. "Lakes and
rivers--hundreds of them--thousands of them! Greggy, there are
more than three thousand lakes between here and civilization and
within forty miles of the new railroad. And nine out of ten of
those lakes are so full of fish that the bears along 'em smell
fishy. Whitefish, Gregson--whitefish and trout. There is a fresh-
water area represented on that map three times as large as the
whole of the five Great Lakes, and yet the Canadians and the
government have never wakened up to what it means. There's a fish
supply in this northland large enough to feed the world, and that
little rim of lakes that I've mapped out along the edge of the
coming railroad represents a money value of millions. That was the
idea that came to me in the middle of the night, and then I
thought--if I could get a corner on a few of these lakes, secure
fishing privileges before the road came--"

"You'd be a millionaire," said Gregson.

"Not only that," replied Philip, pausing for a moment in his
restless pacing. "I didn't think of money, at first; at least, it
was a secondary consideration after that night beside the camp-
fire. I saw how this big vacant north could be made to strike a
mighty blow at those interests which make a profession of
cornering meatstuffs on the other side, how it could be made to
fight the fight of the people by sending down an unlimited supply
of fish that could be sold at a profit in New York, Boston, or
Chicago for a half of what the trust demands. My scheme wasn't
aroused entirely by philanthropy, mind you. I saw in it a chance
to get back at the very people who brought about my father's ruin,
and who kept pounding him after he was in a corner until he broke
down and died. They killed him. They robbed me a few years later.
They made me hate what I was once, a moving, joyous part of--life
down there. I went from the north, first to Ottawa, then to
Toronto and Winnipeg. After that I went to Brokaw, my father's old
partner, with the scheme. I've told you of Brokaw--one of the
deepest, shrewdest old fighters in the Middle West. It was only a
year after my father's death that he was on his feet again, as
strong as ever. Brokaw drew in two or three others as strong as
himself, and we went after the privileges. It was a fight from the
beginning. Hardly were our plans made public before we were met by
powerful opposition. A combination of Canadian capital quickly
organized and petitioned for the same privileges. Old Brokaw knew
what it meant. It was the hand of the trust--disguised under a
veneer of Canadian promoters. They called us 'aliens'--American
'money-grabbers' robbing Canadians of what justly belonged to
them. They aroused two-thirds of the press against us, and yet--"

The lines in Whittemore's face softened. He chuckled as he pulled
out his pipe and began filling it.

"They had to go some to beat the old man, Greggy. I don't know
just how Brokaw pulled the thing off, but I do know that when we
won out three members of parliament and half a dozen other
politicians were honorary members of our organization, and that it
cost Brokaw a hundred thousand dollars! Our opponents had raised
such a howl, calling upon the patriotism of the country and
pointing out that the people of the north would resent this
invasion of foreigners, that we succeeded in getting only a
provisional license, subject to withdrawal by the government at
any time conditions seemed to warrant it. I saw in this no blow to
my scheme, for I was certain that we could carry the thing along
on such a square basis that within a year the whole country would
be in sympathy with us. I expressed my views with enthusiasm at
our final meeting, when the seven of us met to complete our plans.
Brokaw and the other five were to direct matters in the south; I
was to have full command of affairs in the north. A month later I
was at work. Over here"--he leaned over Gregson's shoulder and
placed a forefinger on the map--"I established our headquarters,
with MacDougall, a Scotch engineer, to help me. Within six months
we had a hundred and fifty men at Blind Indian Lake, fifty
canoemen bringing in supplies, and another gang putting in
stations over a stretch of more than a hundred miles of lake
country. Everything was working smoothly, better than I had
expected. At Blind Indian Lake we had a shipyard, two warehouses,
ice-houses, a company store, and a population of three hundred,
and had nearly completed a ten-mile roadbed for narrow-gauge
steel, which would connect us with the main line when it came up
to us. I was completely lost in my work. At times I almost forgot
Brokaw and the others. I was particularly careful of the funds
sent up to me, and had accomplished my work at a cost of a little
under a hundred thousand. At the end of the six months, when I was
about to make a visit into the south, one of our warehouses and
ten thousand dollars' worth of supplies went up in smoke. It was
our first misfortune, and it was a big one. It was about the first
matter that I brought up after I had shaken hands with Brokaw."

Philip's face was set and white as he stood in the middle of the
room looking at Gregson.

"And what do you think was his reply, Greggy? He looked at me for
a moment, a peculiar twitching around the corners of his mouth,
and then said, 'Don't allow a trivial matter like that to worry
you, Philip. Why--we've already cleaned up a million on this
little fish deal!'"

Gregson sat up with a jerk.

"A million! Great Scott--"

"Yes, a million, Greggy," said Philip, softly, with his old
fighting smile. "There was a hundred thousand dollars to my credit
in a First National Bank. Pleasant surprise, eh?"

Gregson had dropped his cigarette. His slim hands gripped the
edges of the table. He made no reply as he waited for Whittemore
to continue.





III


For a full minute Philip paced back and forth without speaking.
Then he stopped, and faced Gregson, who was staring at him.

"A million, Greggy," he repeated, in the same soft voice. "A
hundred thousand dollars to my credit--in a First National Bank!
While I was up here hustling to get affairs on a working basis,
eager to show the government and the people what we could do and
would do, triumphing in our victory over the trust, and figuring
each day on my scheme of making this big, rich north deal a
staggering blow to those accursed combinations down there, they
were at work, too. While I was dreaming and doing these things,
Brokaw and the others had formed the Great Northern Fish and
Development Company, had incorporated it under the laws of New
Jersey, and had already sold over a million dollars' worth of
stock! The thing was in full swing when I reached headquarters. I
had authorized Brokaw to act for me, and I found that I was vice-
president of one of the biggest legalized robbery combinations of
recent years. More money had been spent in advertising than in
development work. Hundreds of thousands of copies of my letters
from the north, filled to the brim with the enthusiasm I had felt
for my work and projects, had been sent out broadcast, luring
buyers of stock. In one of these letters I had said that if a half
of the lakes I had mapped out were fished the north could be made
to produce a million tons of fish a year. Two hundred thousand
copies of this letter were sent out, but Brokaw and his associates
had omitted the words, 'If a half of the lakes mapped out were
fished.' It would take fifteen thousand men, a thousand
refrigerator cars, and a capital of five million to bring this
about. I was stunned by the enormity of their fraud, and yet when
I threatened to bring the whole thing to smash Brokaw only laughed
and pointed out that not a single caution had been omitted. In all
of the advertising it was frankly stated that our license was
provisional, subject to withdrawal if the company did not keep
within laws. That very frankness was an advertisement. It was
something different. It struck home where it was meant to strike--
among small and unfledged investors. It roped them in by
thousands. The shares were ten dollars each, and non-assessable.
Five out of six orders were from one to five shares; ninety-nine
out of every hundred were not above ten shares. It was damnable.
The very people for whom I wanted the north to fight had been
humbugged to the tune of a million and a quarter dollars. Within a
year Brokaw and the others had floated a scheme which was worse
than any trust, for the trusts pay back a part of their steals in
dividends. And _I_ was responsible! Do you realize that, Greggy?
It was I who started the project. It was my reports from the north
which chiefly induced people to buy. And this company--a company
of robbers licensed under the law--I am its founder and its vice-
president!"

Philip dropped back into his chair. The face that he turned to
Gregson was damp with perspiration, though the room was chilly.

"You stayed in," said Gregson.

"I had to. There wasn't a loophole left open to me. There wasn't a
single point at which I could bring attack against Brokaw and the
others. They were six veritable Bismarcks of deviltry and
shrewdness. They hadn't over-stepped the law. They had sold a
million and a quarter of stock on a hundred-thousand-dollar
investment, but Brokaw only laughed when I raged at this. 'Why,
Philip,' he said, 'we value our license alone at over a million!'
And there was no law which could prevent them from placing that
value upon it, or more. There was one thing that I could do--and
only one. I could resign, decline to accept my stock and the
hundred thousand, and publicly announce why I had broken off my
connections with the company. I was about to do this when cooler
judgment prevailed. It occurred to me that there would have to be
an accounting. The company might sell a million and a quarter of
stock--but in the end there would have to be an accounting. If I
was out of the game it would be easily made. If I was in--well, do
you see, Greggy? There was still a chance of making the company
win out as a legitimate enterprise, even though it began under the
black flag of piratical finance and fraud. Brokaw and the others
were astonished at the stand I took. It was like throwing a big,
ripe plum into the fire Brokaw was the first to hedge. He came
over to my side in a private interview which we had, and for the
first time I convinced him completely of the tremendous
possibilities before us. To my surprise he began to show actual
enthusiasm in my favor. We figured out how the company, if
properly developed, could be made to pay a dividend of fifty cents
a share on the stock issued within two years. This, I thought,
would be at least a partial return of the original steal. Brokaw
worked the thing through in his own way. He was authorized to vote
for one of the directors, who was in Europe, and he won over two
of the others. As a consequence we voted all of the money in the
treasury, nearly six hundred thousand dollars, and the remainder
of the stock that was on the market, for development purposes.
Brokaw then made the proposition that the company buy up any
interest that wished to withdraw. The two M. P.'s and a
professional promoter from Toronto immediately sold out at fifty
thousand each. With their original hundred thousand these three
retired with an aggregate steal of nearly half a million. Pretty
good work for yours truly, eh, Greggy! Good Heaven, think of it! I
started out to strike a blow, to launch a gigantic project for the
people, and this was what I had hatched! Robbery, bribery, fraud--
"

He paused, his hands clenched until the blue veins stood out on
them like whipcords.

"And--"

Gregson spoke, uneasily.

"And what?"

Philip's fingers relaxed their grip on the table.

"If that had been all, I wouldn't have called you up here," he
continued. "I've taken a long time in coming down to the real hell
of the affair, because I wanted you to understand the situation
from the beginning. After I left Brokaw I came north again. I
possessed all the funds necessary to make an honest working
organization out of the Northern Fish and Development Company. I
hired two hundred additional men, added twenty new fishing-
stations, began a second road-bed to the main line, and started a
huge dam at Blind Indian Lake. We had thirty horses, driven up
through the wilderness from Le Pas, and twenty teams on the way.
There didn't appear to be an important obstacle in the path of our
success, and I had recovered most of my old enthusiasm when Brokaw
sprung a new mine under my feet.

"He had written a long letter almost immediately after I left him,
which had been delayed at several places. In it he told me that he
had discovered a plot to wreck our enterprise, that some powerful
force was about to be pitted against us in the very country we
were holding. I could see that Brokaw was tremendously worked up
when he wrote the letter, and that for once he felt himself
outwitted by a rival faction, and realized to the full a danger
which it took me some time to comprehend. He had discovered
absolute evidence, he said, that the bunch of trust capitalists
whom he had beaten were about to attack us in another way. Their
forces were already moving into the north country. Their object
was to stir up the country against us, to bring about that
condition of unrest and antagonism between the people of the north
and ourselves which would compel the government to take away our
license. Remember, this license was only provisional. It was, in
fact, left to the people of the north to decide whether we should
remain among them or not. If they turned against us there would be
only one thing for the government to do.

"At first Brokaw's letter caused me no very great uneasiness. I
knew the people up here. I knew that the Indian, the Breed, the
Frenchman, and the White of this God's country were as
invulnerable to bribery as Brokaw himself is to the pangs of
conscience. I loved them. I had faith in them. I knew them to
possess an honor which is not known down there, where we have a
church on every four corners, and where the Word of God is
preached day and night on the open streets. I felt myself warming
with indignation as I replied to Brokaw, resenting his
insinuations as to the crimes which a 'half-savage' people might
be induced to commit for a little whisky and a little money. And
then--"

Whittemore wiped his face. The lines settled deeper about his
mouth.

"Greggy, a week after I received this letter two warehouses were
burned on the same night at Blind Indian Lake. They were three
hundred yards apart. There is absolutely no doubt that it was
incendiarism."

He waited in silence, but Gregson still sat watching him in
silence.

"That was the beginning--three months ago. Since then some
mysterious force has been fighting us at every step. A week after
the warehouses burned, a dredge and boat-building yard, which we
had constructed at considerable expense at the mouth of the Gray
Beaver, was destroyed by fire. A little later a 'premature'
explosion of dynamite cost us ten thousand dollars and two weeks'
labor of fifty men. I organized a special guard service, composed
of fifty of my best men, but it seemed to do no good. Since then
we have lost three miles of road-bed, destroyed by a washout. A
terrific charge of dynamite had been used to let down upon us the
water of a lake which was situated at the top of a ridge near our
right of way. Whoever our enemies are, they seem to know our most
secret movements, and attack us whenever we leave a vulnerable
point open. The most surprising part of the whole affair is this:
in spite of my own efforts to keep our losses quiet the rumor has
spread for hundreds of miles around us, even reaching Churchill,
that the northerners have declared war against our enterprise and
are determined to drive us out. Two-thirds of my men believe this.
MacDougall, my engineer, believes it. Between my working forces
and the Indians, French, and half-breeds about us there has slowly
developed a feeling of suspicion and resentment. It is growing--
every day, every hour. If it continues it can result in but two
things--ruin for ourselves, triumph for those who are getting at
us in this dastardly manner. If something is not done very soon--
within a month--perhaps less--the country will run with the blood
of vengeance from Churchill to the Barrens. If what I expect to
happen does happen there will be no government road built to the
Bay, the new buildings at Churchill will turn gray with disuse,
the treasures of the north will remain undisturbed, the country
itself will slip back a hundred years. The forest people will be
filled with hatred and suspicion so long as the story of great
wrong travels down from father to son. And this wrong, this crime--"

Philip's face was white, cold, almost passionless in the grim
hardness that had settled in it. He unfolded a long typewritten
letter, and handed it to Gregson.

"That letter is the final word," he explained. "It will tell you
what I have not told you. In some way it was mixed in my mail and
I did not discover the error until I had opened it. It is from the
headquarters of our enemies, addressed to the man who is in charge
of their plot up here."

"He waited, scarce breathing, while Gregson bent over the
typewritten pages. He noted the slow tightening of the other's
fingers as he turned from the first sheet to the second; he
watched Gregson's face, the slow ebbing of color, the gray white
that followed it, the stiffening of his arms and shoulders as he
finished. Then Gregson looked up.

"Good God!" he breathed.

For a full half-minute the two men gazed at each other across the
table, without speaking.





IV


Philip broke the silence.

"Now--you understand."

"It is impossible!" gasped Gregson. "I cannot believe this! It--it
might have happened a thousand--two thousand years ago--but not
now. My God, man!" he cried, more excitedly. "You do not mean to
tell me that you believe this will be done?"

"Yes," replied Philip.

"It is impossible!" exclaimed Gregson again, crushing the letter
in his hand. "A man doesn't live--a combination doesn't exist--
that would start such a hell loose as this--in this way!"

Philip smiled grimly.

"The man does live, and the combination does exist," he said,
slowly. "Greggy, I have known of men, and of combinations who have
spent millions, who have sacrificed everything of honor and truth,
who have driven thousands of men, women, and children to
starvation--and worse--to achieve a victory in high finance. I
have known of men and combinations who have broken almost every
law of man and God in the fight for money and power. And so have
you! You have associated with some of these men. You have laughed
and talked with them, smoked with them, and have dined at their
tables. You spent a week at Selden's summer borne, and it was
Selden who cornered wheat three years ago and raised the price of
bread two cents a loaf. It was Selden who brought about the bread
riots in New York, Chicago, and a score of other cities, who swung
wide the prison doors for thousands, whose millions were gained at
a cost of misery, crime, and even death. And Selden is only one
out of thousands who live to-day, watching for their
opportunities, giving no heed to those who may fall under the
juggernaut of their capital. This isn't the age of petty
discrimination, Greggy. It's the age of the almighty dollar, and
of the fight for it. And there's no chivalry, no quarter shown in
this fight. Men of Selden's stamp don't stop at women and
children. The scrubwoman's dollar is just as big as yours or mine,
and if a scheme could be promoted whereby every scrubwoman in
America could be safely robbed of a dollar you'd find thousands of
men down there in our cities ready to go into it to-morrow. And to
such men as these what is the sacrifice of a few women up here?"

Gregson dropped the letter, crumpled and twisted, upon the table.

"I wonder--if I understand," he said, looking into Philip's white
face. "There has undoubtedly been previous correspondence, and
this letter contains the final word. It shows that your enemies
have already succeeded in working up the forest people against
you, and have filled them with suspicion. Their last blow is to
be--"

He stopped, and Philip nodded at the horrified question in his
eyes.

"Greggy, up here there is one law which reigns above all other
law. When I was in Prince Albert a year ago I was sitting on the
veranda of the little old Windsor Hotel. About me were a dozen
wild men of the north, who had come down for a day or two to the
edge of civilization. Most of those men had not been out of the
forests for a year. Two of them were from the Barrens, and this
was their first glimpse of civilized life in five years. As we sat
there a woman came up the street. She turned in at the hotel.
About me there was a sudden lowering of voices, a shuffling of
feet. As she passed, every one of those twelve rose from their
seats and stood with bowed heads and their caps in their hands
until she had gone. I was the only one who remained sitting! That,
Greggy, is the one great law of life up here, the worship of woman
because she is woman. A man may steal, he may kill, but he must
not break this law. If he steals or kills, the mounted police may
bring the offender to justice; but if he breaks this other law
there is but one punishment, and that is the punishment of the
people. That is what this letter purposes to do--to break this law
in order that its penalty may fall upon us. And if they succeed,
God help us!"

It was Gregson who jumped to his feet now. He took half a dozen
nervous steps, paused, lighted a cigarette, and looked down into
Philip's upturned face.

"I understand now where the fight is coming in," he said. "If this
thing goes through, these people will rise and wipe you off the
map. They'll lay it to you and your men, of course. And I fancy it
won't be a job half done if they feel about it as I'd feel. But,"
he demanded, sharply, "why don't you put the affair into the hands
of the proper authorities--the police or the government? You've
got--By George, you must have the name of the man to whom that
letter was addressed!"

Philip handed him a soiled white envelope, of the kind in which
official documents are usually mailed.

"That's the man."

Gregson gave a low whistle.

"Lord--Fitzhugh--Lee!" he read, slowly, as though scarce believing
his eyes. "Great Scott! A British peer!"

The cynical smile on Philip's lips cut his words short.

"Perhaps," he said. "But if there is a British lord up here he
isn't very well known, Greggy. No one knows of him. No one has
heard a rumor of him. That is why we can't go to the police or the
government. They'd give small credence to what we've got to show.
This letter wouldn't count the weight of a feather without further
evidence, and a lot of it. Besides, we haven't time to go to the
government. It is too far away and too slow. And as for the
police--I know of three in this territory, and there are fifteen
thousand square miles of mountains and plains and forest in their
'beat.' It's up to you and me to find this Lord Fitzhugh. If we
can do that we will be in a position to put a kibosh on this plot
in a hurry. If we fail to run him down--"

"What then?"

"We'll have to watch our chances. I've told you all that I know,
and you're on an even working basis with me. At first I thought
that I understood the object of those who are planning to ruin us
in this cowardly manner. But I don't now. If they ruin us they
also destroy the chances of any other company that may be scheming
to usurp our place. For that reason I--"

"There must still be other factors in the game," said Gregson, as
Philip hesitated.

"There are. I want you to work out your own suspicions, Greggy,
and then we'll compare notes. Lord Fitzhugh is the key to the
whole situation. No matter who is at the bottom of this plot, Lord
Fitzhugh is the man at the working end of it. We don't care so
much about the writer of this letter as the one to whom it was
written. It is evident that he had planned to be at Churchill, for
the letter is addressed to him here. But he hasn't shown up. He
has never been here, so far as I can discover."

"I'd give a year's growth for a copy of the BRITISH PEERAGE or a
WHO'S WHO," mused Gregson, flecking the ashes from his cigarette.
"Who the deuce can this Lord Fitzhugh be? What sort of an
Englishman would mix up in a dirty job of this kind? You might
imagine him to be one of the men behind the guns, like Brokaw.
But, by George, he's working the dirty end of it himself,
according to that letter!"

"You're beginning to use your head already, Greggy," said Philip,
a little more cheerfully. "I've asked myself that question a
hundred times during the last three days, and I'm more at sea than
ever. If it had been plain Tom Brown or Bill Jones, the name would
not have suggested anything beyond what you have read in the
letter. That's the question: Why should a Lord Fitzhugh Lee be
mixed up in this affair?"

The two men looked at each other keenly for a few moments in
silence.

"It suggests--" began Gregson.

"What?"

"That there may be a bigger scheme behind this affair than we
imagine. In fact, it suggests to me that the northerners are being
stirred up against you and your men for some other and more
powerful reason than to make you get out of the country and compel
the government to withdraw your license. So help me God, I believe
there's more behind it!"

"So do I," said Philip, quietly.

"Have you any suspicions of what might be the more powerful
motive?"

"None. I know that British capital is heavily interested in
mineral lands east of the surveyed line. But there is none at
Churchill. All operations have been carried on from Montreal and
Toronto."

"Have you written to Brokaw about this letter?"

"You are the first to whom I have revealed its contents," said
Philip. "I have neglected to tell you that Brokaw is so worked up
over the affair that he is joining me in the north. The Hudson's
Bay Company's ship, which comes over twice a year, touches at
Halifax, and if Brokaw followed out his intentions he took passage
there. The ship should be in within a week or ten days. And, by
the way"--Philip stood up and thrust his hands deep in his pockets
as he spoke, half smiling at Gregson--"it gives me pleasure to
hand you a bit of cheerful information along with that," he added.
"Miss Brokaw is coming with him. She is very beautiful."

Gregson held a lighted match until it burnt his finger-tips.

"The deuce you say! I've heard--"

"Yes, you have heard of her beauty, no doubt. I am not a special
enthusiast in your line, Greggy, but I will confirm your opinion
of Miss Brokaw. You will say that she is the most beautiful girl
you have ever seen, and you will want to make heads of her for
BURKE'S. I suppose you wonder why she is coming up here? So do I."

There was a look of perplexity in Philip's eyes which Gregson
might have noticed if he had not gone to the door to look out into
the night.

"What makes the stars so big and bright up in this country, Phil?"
he asked.

"Because of the clearness of the atmosphere through which you are
looking," replied Philip, wondering what was passing through the
other's mind. "This air--compared with ours--is just like a piece
of glass that has been cleaned of a year's accumulation of dirt."

Gregson whistled softly for a few moments. Then he said, without
turning:

"She's got to go some if she beats the girl I saw this evening,
Phil." He turned at Philip's silence, and laughed. "I beg your
pardon, old man, I didn't mean to speak of her as if she were a
horse. I mean Miss Brokaw."

"And I don't particularly like the idea of betting on the merits
of a pretty girl," replied Philip, "but I'll break the rule for
once, and wager you the best hat in New York that she does beat
her."

"Done!" said Gregson. "A little gentle excitement of this sort
will relieve the tension of the other thing, Phil. I've heard
enough of business for to-night. I'm going to finish a sketch that
I have begun of her before I forget the fine points. Any
objection?"

"None at all," said Philip. "Meanwhile I'll go out to breathe a
spell."

He put on his coat and took down his cap from a peg in the wall.
Gregson had seated himself under the lamp and was sharpening a
pencil. As Philip went to go out Gregson drew an envelope from his
pocket and tossed it on the table.

"If you should happen to see any one that looks like--her," he
said, nodding toward the envelope, "kindly put in a word for me,
will you? I did that in a hurry. It's not half flattering."

Philip laughed as he picked up the envelope.

"The most beau--" he began.

He caught himself with a jerk. Gregson, looking up from his
pencil-sharpening, saw the smile leave his lips and a quick flush
leap into his bronzed cheeks. He stared at the face on the
envelope for a half a minute, then gazed speechlessly at Gregson.

It was Gregson who laughed, softly and without suspicion.

"How does your wager look now?" he taunted.

"She--is--beautiful," murmured Philip, dropping the envelope and
turning to the door, "Don't wait for me, Greggy. Go to bed."

He heard Gregson laugh behind him, and he wondered, as he went
out, what Gregson would say if he told him that he had drawn on
the back of the old envelope the beautiful face of Eileen Brokaw!





V


A dozen steps beyond the door Philip paused in the shadow of a
dense spruce, half persuaded to return. From where he stood he
could see Gregson bending over the table, already at work on the
picture. He confessed that the sketch had startled him. He knew
that it had sent the hot blood rushing to his face, and that only
through a fortunate circumstance had Gregson ascribed its effect
upon him to something that was wide of the truth. Miss Brokaw was
a thousand or more miles away. At this moment she was somewhere in
the North Atlantic, if their ship had left Halifax. She had never
been in the north. More than that, he knew that Gregson had never
seen Miss Brokaw, and had heard of her only through himself and
the society columns of the newspapers. How could he explain his
possession of the sketch?

He drew a step or two nearer to the open door, and stopped again.
If he returned to question Gregson it would draw him perilously
near to explanations which he did not care to make, to the one
secret which he wished to guard from his friend's knowledge. After
all, the picture was only a resemblance. It could be nothing but a
resemblance, even though it was so striking and unusual that it
had thrown him off his guard at first. When he returned later and
looked at it again he would no doubt be able to see his error.

He walked on through the spruce shadows and up a narrow trail that
led to the bald knob of the ridge, feeling his way with his right
hand before him when the denseness of the forest shut out the
light of the stars and the moon, until at last he stood out strong
and clear under the glow of the skies, with the world sweeping out
in black and gray mystery around him. To the north was the Bay,
reaching away like a vast black plain. Half a mile distant two or
three lights were burning over Fort Churchill, red eyes peering up
out of the deep pool of darkness; to the south and west there
swept the gray, starlit distances which lay between him and
civilization.

He leaned against a great rock, resting his elbows in a carpet of
moss, and his eyes turned into the mystery of those distances. The
sea of spruce-tops that rose out of the ragged valley at his feet
whispered softly in the night wind; from out of their depths
trembled the low hoot of an owl; over the vaster desolation beyond
hovered a weird and unbroken silence. More than once the spirit of
this world had come to him in the night and had roused him from
his slumber to sit alone out under the stars, imagining all that
it might tell him if he could read the voice of it in the
whispering of the trees, if he could but understand it as he
longed to understand it, and could find in it the peace which he
knew that it all but held for him. The spirit of it had never been
nearer to him than to-night. He felt it close to him, so near that
it seemed like the warm, vibrant touch of a presence at his side,
something which had come to him in a voiceless loneliness as great
as his own, watching and listening with him beside the rock. It
seemed nearer to him since he had seen and talked with Gregson. It
was much nearer to him since a few minutes ago, when he had looked
upon what he had first thought to be the face of Eileen Brokaw.

And this was the world--the spirit--that had changed him. He
wondered if Gregson had seen the change which he tried so hard to
conceal. He wondered if Miss Brokaw would see it when she came,
and if her soft, gray eyes would read to the bottom of him as they
had fathomed him once before upon a time which seemed years and
years ago. Thoughts like these troubled him. Twice that day he had
found stealing over him a feeling that was almost physical pain,
and yet he knew that this pain was but the gnawing of a great
loneliness in his heart. In these moments he had been sorry that
he had brought Gregson back into his life. And with Gregson he was
bringing back Eileen Brokaw. He was more than sorry for that. The
thought of it made him grow warm and uncomfortable, though the
night air from off the Bay was filled with the chill tang of the
northern icebergs. Again his thoughts brought him face to face
with the old pictures, the old life. With them came haunting
memories of a Philip Whittemore who had once lived, and who had
died; and with these ghosts of the past there surged upon him the
loneliness which seemed to crush and stifle him. Like one in a
dream he was swept back. Over the black spruce at his feet, far
into the gray, misty distances beyond, over forests and mountains
and the vast, grim silences his vision reached out until he saw
life as it had begun for him, and as he had lived it for a time.
It had opened fair. It had given promise. It had filled him with
hope and ambition. And then it had changed.

Unconsciously he clenched his hands as he thought of what had
followed, of the black days of ruin, of death, of the dissolution
of all that he had hoped and dreamed for. He had fought, because
he was born a fighter. He had risen again and again, only to find
misfortune still at his face. At first he had laughed, and had
called it bad luck. But the bad luck had followed him, dogging him
with a persistence which developed in him a new perspective of
things. He dropped away from his clubs. He began to measure men
and women as he had not measured them before, and there grew in
him slowly a revulsion for what those measurements revealed. The
spirit that was growing in him called out for bigger things, for
the wild freedom which he had tasted for a time with Gregson--for
a life which was not warped by the gilded amenities of the crowded
ballroom to-night, by the frenzied dollar-fight to-morrow. No one
could understand that change in him. He could find no spirit in
sympathy with him, no chord in another breast that he could reach
out and touch and thrill with understanding. Once he had hoped--
and tried--

A deep breath, almost a sigh, fell from his lips as he thought of
that last night, at the Brokaw ball. He heard again the laughter
and chatter of men and women, the soft rustle of skirts--and then
the break, the silence, as the low, sweet music of his favorite
waltz began, while he stood screened behind a bank of palms
looking down into the clear gray eyes of Eileen Brokaw. He saw
himself as he had stood then, leaning over her slim white
shoulders, intoxicated by her beauty, his face pale with the fear
of what he was about to say; and he saw the girl, with her
beautiful head thrown a little back, so that her golden hair
almost touched his lips, waiting for him to speak. For months he
had fought against the fascination of her beauty. Again and again
he had almost surrendered to it, only to pull himself back in
time. He had seen this girl, as pure-looking as an angel, strike
deeply at the hearts of other men; he had heard her laugh and talk
lightly of the wounds she had made. Behind the eyes which gazed up
at him, dear and sweet as pools of sunlit water, he knew there lay
the consuming passion for power, for admiration, for the froth-
like pleasures of the life that was swirling about them. Sincerity
was but their mask. He knew that the beautiful gray eyes lied to
him when he saw in them all that he held glorious in womanhood.

He laughed softly to himself as the picture grew in his mind, and
he saw Ransom come blundering in through the palms, mopping his
red face and chattering inane things to little Miss Meesen. Ransom
was always blundering. This time his blunder saved Philip. The
passionate words died on his lips; and when Ransom and Miss Meesen
turned about in a giggling flutter, he spoke no words of love, but
opened up his heart to this girl whom he would have loved if she
had been like her eyes. It was his last hope--that she would
understand him, see with him the emptiness of his life, sympathize
with him.

And she had laughed at him!

She had risen to her feet; there had come for an instant a flash
like that of fire in her eyes; her voice trembled a little when
she spoke. There was resentment in the poise of her white
shoulders as Ransom's voice came to them in a loud laugh from
behind the palms; her red lips showed disdain and anger. She hated
Ransom for breaking in; she despised Philip for allowing the
interruption to tear away her triumph. Her own betrayal of herself
was like tonic to Philip. He laughed joyously when he was alone
out in the cool night air. Ransom never knew why Philip hunted him
out and shook his fat hand so warmly at parting.

Philip again felt himself in the fever of that night as he turned
from the rock and began picking his way down the side of the ridge
toward the Bay. He found himself wondering what had become of
good-natured, dense-headed Ransom, who had all he could do to
spend his father's allowance. From Ransom his thoughts turned to
little Harry Dell, Roscoe, big Dan Philips, and three or four
others who had sacrificed their hearts at Miss Brokaw's feet. He
grimaced as he thought of young Dell, who had worshiped the ground
she walked on, and who had gone straight to the devil when she
threw him over. He wondered, too, where Roscoe was. He knew that
Roscoe would have won out if it had not been for the financial
crash which took his brokerage firm off its feet and left him a
pauper. He had heard that Roscoe had gone up into British Columbia
to recuperate his fortune in Douglas fir. As for big Dan--

Philip stumbled over a rock, and rose with a bruised knee. The
shock brought him back to realities, and a few moments later he
stood upon the narrow boulder-strewn beach, rubbing his knee and
calling himself a fool for allowing the old thoughts to stir him
up. Out there, somewhere, Brokaw and his daughter were coming.
That Miss Brokaw was with her father was a circumstance which was
of no importance to him. At least he told himself so, and set his
face toward Churchill.

To-night the stars and the moon seemed to be more than usually
brilliant. About him the great masses of rock, the tumbling surf,
the edge of the forest, and the Bay itself were illumined as if by
the light of a softly radiant day. He looked at his watch and
found that it was past midnight. He had been up since dawn, and
yet he felt no touch of fatigue, no need of sleep. He took off his
cap and walked bareheaded in the mellow light, his moccasined feet
falling lightly, his eyes alert to all that this wonderful night
world might hold for him. Ahead of him rose a giant mass of rock,
worn smooth and slippery by the water dashed against it in the
crashing storms of countless centuries, and this he climbed,
panting when he reached the top. His eyes turned to where he saw
Fort Churchill sleeping along the edge of the Bay.

In that same spot, a great pool of night-glow between two forest-
crowned ridges, it had lain for hundreds of years. He passed the
ancient landing-place of rocks, built a hundred and fifty years
ago for the first ships that came over the strange sea; he stood
upon the tumbled foundations of the Fort, that was still older,
and saw the starlight glinting on one of the brass cannon that lay
where it had fallen amid the debris, untouched and unmoved since
the days, ages-gone, when it had last thundered its welcome or its
defiance through the solitudes; he walked slowly along the shore
where the sea had lashed wearily for many a year, to reach the
wilderness dead, and where now, triumphant, the frothing surf
bared gun-case coffins and tumbled the bones of men down into its
sullen depths. And such men! Men who had lived and died when the
world was unborn in a half of its knowledge and science, when red
blood was the great capital, strong hearts the winners of life.
And there were women, too, women who had come with these men, and
died with them, in the opening-up of a new world. It was such men
as these, and such women as these, that Philip loved, and he
walked with bared head and swiftly beating heart over the unmarked
jungle of the dead.

And then he came to other things, the first low log buildings of
Churchill, to the silence of sleeping life. New buildings loomed
up--working quarters of men who were grubbing for dollars, the new
wharves, the skeletons of elevators, sullen, windowless
warehouses, the office-buildings of men who were already fighting
and quarreling and gripping at one another's throats in the
struggle for supremacy, for the biggest and ripest plums in this
new land of opportunity. The dollar-fight had begun, and the
things that already marked its presence loomed monstrous and
grotesque to Philip, as if jeering at the forgotten efforts of
those whom the sea was washing away. And suddenly it struck Philip
that the sea, working ceaselessly, digging away at its dead, was
not the enemy of the nameless creatures in the gun-case coffins,
but that it was a friend, stanch through centuries, rescuing them
now from the desecration that was to come; and for a moment he was
resistless to the spirit that moved him about and made him face
that sea with something that was almost a prayer in his heart.

As he turned he saw that a light had appeared in one of the low
log buildings which contained the two offices of the Keewatin
Mines and Lands Company. The light, and the bulky shadow of old
Pearce, which appeared for a moment on one of the drawn curtains,
aroused Philip to other thoughts. Since his arrival at Churchill
he had made the acquaintance of Pearce, and it struck him now that
just such a man as this might be Lord Fitzhugh Lee. The Keewatin
Mines and Lands Company had no mines and few lands, and yet Pearce
had told him that they were doing a hustling business down south,
selling stock on mineral claims that couldn't be worked for years.
After all, was he any better than Pearce?

The old bitterness rose in him. He was no better than Pearce, no
better than this Lord Fitzhugh himself, and it was fate--fate and
people, that had made him so. He walked swiftly now, following
close along the shore in the hard stretch kept bare by the tides,
until he came to the red coals of half a dozen Indian fires on the
edge of the forest beyond the company's buildings. A dog scented
him and howled. He heard a guttural voice break in a word of
command from one of the tepees, and there was silence again.

He turned to the right, burying himself deeper and deeper into the
great silence of the north, his quick steps keeping pace with the
thoughts that were passing through his brain. Fate, bad luck,
circumstance--they had been against him. He had told himself this
a hundred times, had laughed at them with the confidence of one
who knew that some day he would rise above these things in
triumph. And yet what were these elements of fortune, as he had
called them, but people? A feeling of personal resentment began to
oppress him. People had downed him, and not circumstance and bad
luck. Men and women had made a failure of him, and not fate. For
the first time it occurred to him that the very men and women whom
Brokaw and his associates had duped, whom Pearce was duping, would
play the game in the same way if they had the opportunity. What if
he had played on the winning side, if he had enlisted his fighting
energies with men like Brokaw and Pearce, fought for money and
power in place of this other thing, which seemed to count so
little? Other men would have given much to have been in his favor
with Eileen Brokaw. He might have been in the front of this other
fight, the winning fight, the possessor of fortune, a beautiful
woman--

He stopped suddenly. It seemed to him that he had heard a voice.
He had climbed from out of the shadow of the forest until he stood
now on a gray cliff of rock that reached out into the Bay, like
the point of a great knife guarding Churchill. A block of
sandstone rose in his path, and he passed quietly around it. In
another instant he had flattened himself against it.

A dozen feet away, full in the moonlight, three figures sat on the
edge of the cliff, as motionless as though hewn out of rock.
Instinctively Philip's hand slipped to his revolver holster, but
he drew it back when he saw that one of the three figures was that
of a woman. Beside her crouched a huge wolf-dog; on the other side
of the dog sat a man. The man was resting in the attitude of an
Indian, with his elbows on his knees, his chin in the palms of his
hands, gazing steadily and silently out over the Bay toward
Churchill.

It was his companion that held Philip motionless against the face
of the rock. She, too, was leaning forward, gazing in that same
steady, silent way toward Churchill. She was bareheaded. Her hair
fell loose over her shoulders and streamed down her back until it
piled itself upon the rock, shining dark and lustrous in the light
of the moon. Philip knew that she was not an Indian.

Suddenly the girl sat erect, and then sprang to her feet, partly
facing him, the breeze rippling her hair about her face and
shoulders, her eyes turned to the vast gray depths of the world
beyond the forests. For an instant she turned so that the light of
the moon fell full upon her, and in that moment Philip thought
that her eyes had searched him out in the shadow of the rock and
were looking straight into his own. Never had he seen such a
beautiful face among the forest people. He had dreamed of such
faces beside camp-fires, in the deep loneliness of long nights in
the forests, when he had awakened to bring before him visions of
what Eileen Brokaw might have been to him if he had found her one
of these people. He drew himself closer to the rock. The girl
turned again to the edge of the cliff, her slender form
silhouetted against the starlit sky. She leaned over the dog, and
he heard her voice, soft and caressing, but he could not
understand her words. The man lifted his head, and he recognized
the swarthy, clear-cut features of a French half-breed. He moved
away as quietly as he had come.

The girl's voice stopped him.

"And that is Churchill, Pierre--the Churchill you have told me of,
where the ships come in?"

"Yes, that is Churchill, Jeanne."

For a moment there was silence. Then, clear and low, with a wild,
sobbing note in her voice that thrilled Philip, the girl cried:

"And I hate it, Pierre. I hate it--hate it--hate it!"

Philip stepped out boldly from the rock.

"And I hate it, too," he said.





VI


Scarce had he spoken when he would have given much to have
recalled his words, wrung from his lips by that sobbing note of
loneliness, of defiance, of half pain in the girl's voice. It was
the same note, the same spirit crying out against his world that
he had listened to in the moaning of the surf as it labored to
carry away the dead, and in the wind that sighed in the spruce-
tops below the mountain, only now it was the spirit speaking
through a human voice. Every fiber in his body vibrated in
response to it, and he stood with bared head, filled with a wild
desire to make these people understand, and yet startled at the
effect which his appearance had produced.

The girl faced him, her eyes shining with sudden fear. Quicker
than her own was the movement of the half-breed. In a flash he was
upon his feet, his dark face tense with action, his right hand
gripping at something in his belt as he bent toward the figure in
the center of the rock. His posture was that of an animal ready to
spring. Close beside him gleamed the white fangs of the wolf-dog.
The girl leaned over and twisted her fingers in the tawny hair
that bristled on the dog's neck. Philip heard her speak, but she
did not move her eyes from his face. It was the tableau of a
moment, tense, breathless. The only thing that moved was the
shimmer of steel. Philip caught the gleam of it under the half-
breed's hand.

"Don't do that, M'sieur," he said, pointing at the other's belt.
"I am sorry that I disturbed you. Sometimes I come up here--alone
--to smoke my pipe and listen to the sea down there. I heard you
say that you hate Churchill, and I hate it. That is why I spoke."

He turned to the girl.

"I am sorry. I beg your pardon."

He looked at her with new wonderment. She had tossed back her
loose hair, and stood tall and straight in the moonlight, her dark
eyes gazing at him now calmly and without affright. She was
dressed in rich yellow buckskin, as soft as chamois. Her throat
was bare. A deep collar of lace fell over her shoulders. One hand,
raised to her breast, revealed a wide gauntlet cuff of red or
purple plush, of a fashion two centuries old. Her lips were
parted, and he saw the faintest gleam of her white teeth, the
quick rising and falling of her bosom. He had spoken directly to
her, yet she gave no sign of having heard him.

"You startled us, that is all, M'sieur," said Pierre, quietly. His
English was excellent, and as he spoke he bowed low to Philip. "It
is I whom you must pardon, M'sieur--for betraying so much
caution."

Philip held out his hand.

"My name is Whittemore--Philip Whittemore," he said. "I'm staying
at Churchill until the ship comes in and--and I hope you'll let me
sit here on the rock."

For an instant Pierre's fingers gripped his hand, and he bowed low
again like a courtier. Philip saw that he, too, wore the same big,
old-fashioned cuffs, and that it was not a knife that hung at his
belt, but a short rapier.

"And I am Pierre--Pierre Couchee," he said. "And this--is my
sister--Jeanne. We do not belong to Fort Churchill, but come from
Fort o' God. Good night, M'sieur!"

The girl had taken a step back, and now she swept him a courtesy
so low that her fallen hair streamed over her shoulders. She spoke
no word, but passed quickly with Pierre up the rock, and while
Philip stood stunned and speechless they disappeared swiftly into
the white gloom of the night.

Mutely he gazed after them. For a long time he stood staring
beyond the rocks, marveling at the strangeness of this thing that
had happened. An hour before he had stood with bared head over the
ancient dead at Churchill, and now, on the rock, he had seen the
resurrection of what he had dreamed those dead to be in life. He
had never seen people like Pierre and Jeanne. Their strange dress,
the rapier at Pierre's side, his courtly bow, the low, graceful
courtesy that the girl had made him, all carried him back to the
days of the old pictures that hung in the factor's room at
Churchill, when high-blooded gallants came into the wilderness
with their swords at their sides, wearing the favors of court
ladies next their hearts. Pierre, standing there on the rock, with
his hand on his rapier, might have been Grosellier himself, the
prince's favorite, and Jeanne--

Something white on the rock near where the girl had been sitting
caught Philip's eyes. In a moment he held in his fingers a small
handkerchief and a broad ribbon of finely knit lace. In her haste
to get away she had forgotten these things. He was about to run to
the crest of the cliff and call loudly for Pierre Couchee when he
held the handkerchief and the lace close to his face and the
delicate perfume of heliotrope stopped him. There was something
familiar about it, something that held him wondering and
mystified, until he knew that he had lost the opportunity to
recall Pierre and his companion. He looked at the handkerchief
more, closely. It was a dainty fabric, so soft that it gave barely
the sensation of touch when he crushed it in the palm of his hand.
For a few moments he was puzzled to account for the filmy strip of
lace. Then the truth came to him. Jeanne had used it to bind her
hair!

He laughed softly, joyously, as he wound the bit of fabric about
his fingers and retraced his steps toward Churchill. Again and
again he pressed the tiny handkerchief to his face, breathing of
its sweetness; and the action suddenly stirred his memory to the
solution of its mystery. It was this same sweetness that had come
to him on the night that he had looked down into the beautiful
face of Eileen Brokaw at the Brokaw ball. He remembered now that
Eileen Brokaw loved heliotrope, and that she always wore a purple
heliotrope at her white throat or in the gold of her hair. For a
moment it struck him as singular that so many things had happened
this day to remind him of Brokaw's daughter. The thought hastened
his steps. He was anxious to look at the picture again, to
convince himself that he had been mistaken. Gregson was asleep
when he re-entered the cabin. The light was burning low, and
Philip turned up the wick. On the table was the picture as Gregson
had left it. This time there was no doubt. He had drawn the face
of Eileen Brokaw. In a spirit of jest he had written under it,
"The Wife of Lord Fitzhugh."

In spite of their absurdity the words affected Philip curiously.
Was it possible that Miss Brokaw had reached Fort Churchill in
some other way than by ship? And, if not, was it possible that in
this remote corner of the earth there was another woman who
resembled her so closely? Philip took a step toward Gregson, half
determined to awaken him. And yet, on second thought, he knew that
Gregson could not explain. Even if the artist had learned of his
affair with Miss Brokaw and had secured a picture of her in some
way, he would not presume to go this far. He was convinced that
Gregson had drawn the picture of a face that he had seen that day.
Again he read the words at the bottom of the sketch, and once more
he experienced their curious effect upon him--an effect which it
was impossible for him to analyze even in his own mind.

He replaced the picture upon the table and drew the handkerchief
and bit of lace from his pocket. In the light of the lamp he saw
that both were as unusual as had been the picturesque dress of the
girl and her companion. Even to his inexperienced eyes and touch
they gave evidence of a richness that puzzled him, of a fashion
that he had never seen. They were of exquisite workmanship. The
lace was of a delicate ivory color, faintly tinted with yellow.
The handkerchief was in the shape of a heart, and in one corner of
it, so finely wrought that he could barely make out the silken
letters, was the word "Camille."

The scent of heliotrope rose more strongly in the closed room, and
from the handkerchief Philip's eyes turned to the face of Eileen
Brokaw looking at him from out of Gregson's sketch. It was a
curious coincidence. He reached over and placed the picture face
down. Then he loaded his pipe, and sat smoking, his vision
traveling beyond the table, beyond the closed door to the lonely
black rock where he had come upon Jeanne and Pierre. Clouds of
smoke rose about him, and he half closed his eyes. He saw the girl
again, as she stood there; he saw the moonlight shining in her
hair, the dark, startled beauty of her eyes as she turned upon
him; he heard again the low sobbing note in her voice as she cried
out her hatred against Churchill. He forgot Eileen Brokaw now,
forgot in these moments all that he and Gregson had talked of that
day. His schemes, his fears, his feverish eagerness to begin the
fight against his enemies died away in thoughts of the beautiful
girl who had come into his life this night. It seemed to him now
that he had known her for a long time, that she had been a part of
him always, and that it was her spirit that he had been groping
and searching for, and could never find. For the space of those
few moments on the cliff she had driven out the emptiness and the
loneliness from his heart, and there filled him a wild desire to
make her understand, to talk with her, to stand shoulder to
shoulder with Pierre out there in the night, a comrade.

Suddenly his fingers closed tightly over the handkerchief. He
turned and looked steadily at Gregson. His friend was sleeping,
with his face to the wall.

Would not Pierre return to the rock in search of these articles
which his sister had left behind? The thought set his blood
tingling. He would go back--and wait for Pierre. But if Pierre did
not return--until to-morrow?

He laughed softly to himself as he drew paper toward him and
picked up the pencil which Gregson had used. For many minutes he
wrote steadily. When he had done, he folded what he had written
and tied it in the handkerchief. The strip of lace with which
Jeanne had bound her hair he folded gently and placed in his
breast pocket. There was a guilty flush in his face as he stole
silently to the door. What would Gregson say if he knew that he--
Phil Whittemore, the man whom he had once idealized as "The
Fighter," and whom he believed to be proof against all love of
woman--was doing this thing? He opened and closed the door softly.

At least he would send his message to these strange people of the
wilderness. They would know that he was not a part of that
Churchill which they hated, that in his heart he had ceased to be
a thing of its breed. He apologized again for his sudden
appearance on the rock, but the apology was only an excuse for
other things which he wrote, in which for a few brief moments he
bared himself to those whom he knew would understand, and asked
that their acquaintance might be continued. He felt that there was
something almost boyish in what he was doing; and yet, as he
hurried over the ridge and down into Churchill again, he was
thrilled as no other adventure had ever thrilled him before. As he
approached the cliff he began to fear that the half-breed would
not return for the things which Jeanne had left, or that he had
already re-visited the rock. The latter thought urged him on until
he was half running. The crest of the cliff was bare when he
reached it. He looked at his watch. He had been gone an hour.

Where the moonlight seemed to fall brightest he dropped the
handkerchief, and then slipped back into the rocky trail that led
to the edge of the Bay. He had scarcely reached the strip of level
beach that lay between him and Churchill when from far behind him
there came the long howl of a dog. It was the wolf-dog. He knew it
by the slow, dismal rising of the cry and the infinite sadness
with which it as slowly died away until lost in the whisperings of
the forest and the gentle wash of the sea. Pierre was returning.
He was coming back through the forest. Perhaps Jeanne would be
with him.

For the third time Philip climbed back to the great moonlit rock
at the top of the cliff. Eagerly he faced the north, whence the
wailing cry of the wolf-dog had come. Then he turned to the spot
where he had dropped the handkerchief, and his heart gave a sudden
jump.

There was nothing on the rock. The handkerchief was gone!





VII


Philip stood undecided, his ears strained to catch the slightest
sound. Ten minutes had not elapsed since he had dropped the
handkerchief. Pierre could not have gone far among the rocks. It
was possible that he was concealed somewhere near him now. Softly
he called his name.

"Pierre--ho, Pierre Couchee!"

There was no answer, and in the next breath he was sorry that he
had called. He went silently down the trail. He had come to the
edge of Churchill when once more he heard the howl of the dog far
back in the forest. He stopped to locate as nearly as he could the
point whence the sound came, for he was certain now that the dog
had not returned with Pierre, but had remained with Jeanne, and
was howling from their camp.

Gregson was awake and sitting on the edge of his bunk when Philip
entered the cabin.

"Where the deuce have you been?" he demanded. "I was just trying
to make up my mind to go out and hunt for you. Stolen--lost--or
something like that?"

"I've been thinking," said Philip, truthfully.

"So have I," said Gregson. "Ever since you came back, wrote that
letter, and went out again--"

"You were asleep," corrected Philip. "I looked at you."

"Perhaps I was--when you looked. But I have a hazy recollection of
you sitting there at the table, writing like a fiend. Anyway, I've
been thinking ever since you went out of the door, and--I'd like
to read that Lord Fitzhugh letter again."

Philip handed him the letter. He was quite sure from his friend's
manner of speaking that he had seen nothing of the handkerchief
and the lace.

Gregson seized the paper lazily, yawned, and slipped it under the
blanket which he had doubled up for a pillow.

"Do you mind if I keep it for a few days. Phil?" he asked.

"Not in the least, if you'll tell me why you want it," said
Philip.

"I will--when I discover a reason myself," replied his friend,
coolly, stretching himself out again in the bunk. "Remember when I
dreamed that Carabobo planter was sticking a knife into you,
Phil?--and the next day he tried it? Well, I've had a funny dream,
I want to sleep on this letter. I may want to sleep on it for a
week. Better turn in if you expect to get a wink between now and
morning."

For half an hour after he had undressed and extinguished the light
Philip lay awake reviewing the incidents of his night's adventure.
He was certain that his letter was in the hands of Pierre and
Jeanne, but he was not so sure that they would respond to it. He
half expected that they would not, and yet he felt a deep sense of
satisfaction in what he had done. If he met them again he would
not be quite a stranger. And that he would meet them he was not
only confident, but determined. If they did not appear in Fort
Churchill he would hunt out their camp.

He found himself asking a dozen questions, none of which he could
answer. Who was this girl who had come like a queen from out of
the wilderness, and this man who bore with him the manner of a
courtier? Was it possible, after all, that they were of the
forests? And where was Fort o' God? He had never heard of it
before, and as he thought of Jeanne's strange, rich dress, of the
heliotrope-scented handkerchief, of the old-fashioned rapier at
Pierre's side, and of the exquisite grace with which the girl had
left him he wondered if such a place as this Fort o' God must be
could exist in the heart of the desolate northland. Pierre had
said that they had come from Fort o' God. But were they a part of
it?

He fell asleep, the resolution formed in his mind to investigate
as soon as he found the opportunity. There would surely be those
at Churchill who would know these people; if not, they would know
of Fort o' God.

Philip found Gregson awake and dressed when he rolled out of his
bunk a few hours later. Gregson had breakfast ready.

"You're a good one to have company," growled the artist. "When you
go out mooning again please take me along, will you? Chuck your
head in that pail of water and let's eat. I'm starved."

Philip noticed that his companion had tacked the sketch against
one of the logs above the table.

"Pretty good for imagination, Greggy," he said, nodding. "Burke
will jump at that if you do it in colors."

"Burke won't get it," replied Gregson, soberly, seating himself at
the table. "It won't be for sale."

"Why?"

Gregson waited until Philip had seated himself before he answered.

"Look here, old man--get ready to laugh. Split your sides, if you
want to. But it's God's truth that the girl I saw yesterday is the
only girl I've ever seen that I'd be willing to die for!"

"To be sure," agreed Philip. "I understand."

Gregson stared at him in surprise. "Why don't you laugh?" he
asked.

"It is not a laughing matter," said Philip. "I say that I
understand. And I do."

Gregson looked from Philip's face to the picture.

"Does it--does it hit you that way, Phil?"

"She is very beautiful."

"She is more than that," declared Gregson, warmly. "If I ever
looked into an angel's face it was yesterday, Phil. For just a
moment I met her eyes--"

"And they were--"

"Wonderful!"

"I mean--the color," said Philip, engaging himself with the food.

"They were blue or gray. It is the first time I ever looked into a
woman's eyes without being sure of the color of them. It was her
hair, Phil--not this tinsel sort of gold that makes you wonder if
it's real, but the kind you dream about. You may think me a loon,
but I'm going to find out who she is and where she is as soon as I
have done with this breakfast."

"And Lord Fitzhugh?"

A shadow passed over Gregson's face. For a few moments he ate in
silence. Then he said:

"That's what kept me awake after you had gone--thinking of Lord
Fitzhugh and this girl. See here, Phil. She isn't one of the kind
up here. There was breeding and blood in every inch of her, and
what I am wondering is if these two could be associated in any
way. I don't want it to be so. But--it's possible. Beautiful young
women like her don't come, traveling up to this knob-end of the
earth alone, do they?"

Philip did not pursue the subject. A quarter of an hour later the
two young men left the cabin, crossed the ridge, and walked
together down into Churchill. Gregson went to the Company's store,
while Philip entered the building occupied by Pearce. Pearce was
at his desk. He looked up with tired, puffy eyes, and his fat
hands lay limply before him. Philip knew that he had not been to
bed. His oily face strove to put on an appearance of animation and
business as Philip entered.

Philip produced a couple of cigars and took a chair opposite him.

"You look bushed, Pearce," he began. "Business must be rushing. I
saw a light in your window after midnight, and I came within an
ace of calling. Thought you wouldn't like to be interrupted, so I
put off my business until this morning."

"Insomnia," said Pearce, huskily. "I can't sleep. Suppose you saw
me at work through the window?" There was almost an eager haste in
his question.

"Saw nothing but the light," replied Philip, carelessly. "You know
this country pretty well, don't you, Pearce?"

"Been 'squatting' on prospects for eight years, waiting for this
damned railroad," said Pearce, interlacing his thick fingers. "I
guess I know it!"

"Then you can undoubtedly tell me the location of Fort o' God?"

"Fort o' What?"

"Fort o' God."

Pearce looked blank.

"It's a new one on me," he said, finally. "Never heard of it." He
rose from his chair and went over to a big map hanging against the
wall. Studiously he went over it with the point of his stubby
forefinger. "This is the latest from the government," he
continued, with his back to Philip, "but it ain't here. There's a
God's Lake down south of Nelson House, but that's the only thing
with a God about it north of fifty-three."

"It's not so far south as that," said Philip, rising.

Pearce's little eyes were fixed on him shrewdly.

"Never heard of it," he repeated. "What sort of a place is it, a
post--"

"I have no idea," replied Philip. "I came for information more out
of curiosity than anything else. Perhaps I misunderstood the name.
I'm much obliged."

He left Pearce in his chair and went directly to the factor's
quarters. Bludsoe, chief factor of the Hudson's Bay Company in the
far north, could give him no more information than had Pearce. He
had never heard of Fort o' God. He could not remember the name of
Couchee. During the next two hours Philip talked with French,
Indian, and half-breed trappers, and questioned the mail runner,
who had come in that morning from the south. No one could tell him
of Fort o' God.

Had Pierre lied to him? His face flushed with anger as this
thought came to him. In the next breath he assured himself that
Pierre was not a man who would lie. He had measured him as a man
who would fight, and not one who would lie. Besides, he had
voluntarily given the information that he and Jeanne were from
Fort o' God. There had been no excuse for falsehood.

He purposely directed his movements so that he would not come into
contact with Gregson, little dreaming that his artist friend was
working under the same formula. He lunched with the factor, and a
little later went boldly back to the cliff where he had met Jeanne
and Pierre the preceding night. Although he had now come to expect
no response to what he had written, he carefully examined the
rocks about him. Then he set out through the forest in the
direction from which had come the howling of the wolf-dog.

He searched until late in the afternoon, but found no signs of a
recent camp. For several miles he followed the main trail that led
northward from Fort Churchill. He crossed three times through the
country between this trail and the edge of the Bay, searching for
smoke from the top of every ridge that he climbed, listening for
any sound that might give him a clue. He visited the shack of an
old half-breed deep in the forest beyond the cliff, but its aged
tenant could give him no information. He had not seen Pierre and
Jeanne, nor had he heard the howling of their dog.

Tired and disappointed, Philip returned to Churchill. He went
directly to his cabin and found Gregson waiting for him. There was
a curious look in the artist's face as he gazed questioningly at
his friend. His immaculate appearance was gone. He looked like one
who had passed through an uncomfortable hour or two. Perspiration
had dried in dirty streaks on his face, and his hands were buried
dejectedly in his trousers pockets. He rose to his feet and stood
before his companion.

"Look at me, Phil--take a good long look," he urged.

Philip stared.

"Am I awake?" demanded the artist. "Do I look like a man in his
right senses? Eh, tell me!"

He turned and pointed to the sketch hanging against the wall.

"Did I see that girl, or didn't I?" he went on, not waiting for
Philip to answer. "Did I dream of seeing her? Eh? By thunder,
Phil--" He whirled upon his companion, a glow of excitement taking
the place of the fatigue in his eyes. "I couldn't find her to-day.
I've hunted in every shack and brush heap in and around Churchill.
I've hunted until I'm so tired I can hardly stand up. And the
devil of it is, I can find no one else who got more than a glimpse
of her, and then they did not see her as I did. She had nothing on
her head when I saw her, but I remember now that something like a
heavy veil fell about her shoulders, and that she was lifting it
when she passed. Anyway, no one saw her like--that." He pointed to
the sketch. "And she's gone--gone as completely as though she came
in a flying-machine and went away in one. She's gone--unless--"

"What?"

"Unless she is in concealment right here in Churchill. She's gone
--or hiding."

"You have reason to suspect that she would be hiding," said
Philip, concealing the effect of the other's words upon him.

Gregson was uneasy. He lighted a cigarette, puffed at it once or
twice, and tossed it through the open door. Suddenly he reached in
his coat pocket and pulled out an envelope.

"Deuce take it, if I know whether I have or not!" he cried. "But--
look here, Phil. I saw the mail come in to-day, and I walked up as
bold as you please and asked if there was anything for Lord
Fitzhugh. I showed the other letter, and said I was Fitzhugh's
agent. It went. And I got--this!"

Philip snatched at the letter which Gregson held out to him. His
fingers trembled as he unfolded the single sheet of paper which he
drew forth. Across it was written a single line:

Don't lose an hour. Strike now.

There was nothing more, except a large ink blot under the words.
The envelope was addressed in the same hand as the one he had
previously received. The men stared into each other's face.

"It's singular, that's all," pursued Gregson. "Those words are
important. The writer expects that they will reach Lord Fitzhugh
immediately, and as soon as he gets them you can look for war.
Isn't that their significance? I repeat that it is singular this
girl should come here so mysteriously, and disappear still more
so, just at this psychological moment; and it is still more
puzzling when you take into consideration the fact that two hours
before the runner came in from the south another person inquired
for Lord Fitzhugh's mail!"

Philip started.

"And they told you this?"

"Yes. It was a man who asked--a stranger. He gave no name and left
no word. Now, if it should happen to be the man who was with the
girl when I saw her--and we can find him--we've as good as got
this Lord Fitzhugh. If we don't find him--and mighty soon--it's up
to us to start for your camps and put them into fighting shape.
See the point?"

"But we've got the letter," said Philip. "Fitzhugh won't receive
the final word, and that will delay whatever plot he has ready to
spring."

"My dear Phil," said Gregson, softly. "I always said that you were
the fighter and I the diplomat, yours the brawn and mine the
brain. Don't you see what this means? I'll gamble my right hand
that these very words have been sent to Lord Fitzhugh at two or
three different points, so that they would be sure of reaching
him. I'm just as positive that he has already received a copy of
the letter which we have. Mark my words, it's catch Lord Fitzhugh
within the next few days--or fight!"

Philip sat down, breathing heavily.

"I'll send word to MacDougall," he said. "But I--I must wait for
the ship!"

"Why not leave word for Brokaw and join MacDougall?"

"Because when the ship comes in I believe that a large part of
this mystery will be cleared up," replied Philip. "It is necessary
that I remain here. That will give us a few days in which to make
a further search for these people."

Gregson did not urge the point, but replaced the second letter in
his pocket with the first. During the evening he remained at the
cabin. Philip returned to Churchill. For an hour he sat among the
ruins of the old fort, striving to bring some sort of order out of
the chaos of events that had occurred during the past few days. He
was almost convinced that he ought to reveal all that he knew to
Gregson, and yet several reasons kept him from doing so. If Miss
Brokaw was on the London ship when it arrived at Churchill, there
would be no necessity of disclosing that part of his own history
which he was keeping secret within himself. If Eileen was not on
the ship her absence would be sufficient proof to him that she was
in or near Churchill, and in this event he knew that it would be
impossible for him to keep from associating with her movements not
only those of Lord Fitzhugh, but also those of Jeanne and Pierre
and of Brokaw himself. He could see but two things to do at
present, wait and watch. If Miss Brokaw was not with her father,
he would take Gregson fully into his confidence.

The next morning he despatched a messenger with a letter for
MacDougall, at Blind Indian Lake, warning him to be on his guard
and to prepare the long line of sub-stations for possible attack.
All this day Gregson remained in the cabin.

"It won't do for me to make myself too evident," he explained.
"I've called for Lord Fitzhugh's mail, and I'd better lie as low
as possible until the corn begins to pop."

Philip again searched the forests to the north and west with the
hope of finding some trace of Pierre and Jeanne. The forest people
were beginning to come into Churchill from all directions to be
present at the big event of the year--the arrival of the London
ship--and Philip made inquiries on every trail. No one had seen
those whom he described. The fourth and fifth days passed without
any developments. So far as he could discover there was no Fort o'
God, no Jeanne and Pierre Couchee. He was completely baffled. The
sixth day he spent in the cabin with Gregson. On the morning of
the seventh there came from far out over the Bay the hollow
booming of a cannon.

It was the signal which for two hundred years the ships from over
the sea had given to the people of Churchill.

By the time the two young men had finished their breakfasts and
climbed to the top of the ridge overlooking the Bay, the vessel
had dropped anchor half a mile off shore, where she rode safe from
the rocks at low tide. Along the shore below them, where Churchill
lay, the forest people were gathered in silent, waiting groups.
Philip pointed to the factor's big York boat, already two-thirds
of the way to the ship.

"We should have gone with Bludsoe," he said. "Brokaw will think
this a shabby reception on our part, and Miss Brokaw won't be half
flattered. We'll go down and get a good position on the pier."

Fifteen minutes later they were thrusting themselves through the
crowd of men, women, children, and dogs congregated at the foot of
the long stone pier alongside which the ship would lie for two or
three hours at each high tide. Philip stopped among a number of
Crees and half-breeds, and laid a detaining hand upon Gregson's
arm.

"This is near enough, if you don't want to make yourself
conspicuous," he said.

The York boat was returning. Philip pulled a cigar from his pocket
and lighted it. He felt his heart throbbing excitedly as the boat
drew nearer. He looked at Gregson. The artist was taking short,
quick puffs on his cigarette, and Philip wondered at the evident
eagerness with which he was watching the approaching craft.

Until the boat ran close up under the pier its sail hid the
occupants. While the canvas still fluttered in the light wind
Bludsoe sprang from the bow out upon the rocks with a rope. Three
or four of his men followed. With a rattle of blocks and rings the
sheet dropped like a huge white curtain, and Philip took a step
forward, scarce restraining the exclamation that forced itself to
his lips at the picture which it revealed. Standing on the broad
rail, her slender form poised for the quick upward step, one hand
extended to Bludsoe, was Eileen Brokaw! In another instant she was
upon the pier, facing the strange people before her, while her
father clambered out of the boat behind. There was a smile of
expectancy on her lips as she scanned the dark, silent faces of
the forest people. Philip knew that she was looking for him. His
pulse quickened. He turned for a moment to see the effect of the
girl's appearance upon Gregson.

The artist's two hands had gripped his arm. They closed now until
his fingers were like cords of steel. His face was white, his lips
set into thin lines. For a breath he stood thus, while Miss
Brokaw's scrutiny traveled nearer to them. Then, suddenly, he
released his hold and darted back among the half-breeds and
Indians, his face turning to Philip's in one quick, warning
appeal.

He was not a moment too soon, for scarce had he gone when Miss
Brokaw caught sight of Philip's tall form at the foot of the pier.
Philip did not see the signal which she gave him. He was staring
at the line of faces ahead of him. Two people had worked their way
through that line, and suddenly every muscle in his body became
tense with excitement and joy. They were Pierre and Jeanne!

He caught his breath at what happened then. He saw Jeanne falter
for a moment. He noticed that she was now dressed like the others
about her, and that Pierre, who stood at her shoulder, was no
longer the fine gentleman of the rock. The half-breed bent over
her, as if whispering to her, and then Jeanne ran out from those
about her to Eileen, her beautiful face flushed with joy and
welcome as she reached out her arms to the other woman. Philip saw
a sudden startled look leap into Miss Brokaw's face, but it was
gone as quickly as it appeared. She stared at the forest girl,
drew herself haughtily erect, and, with a word which he could not
hear, turned to Bludsoe and her father. For an instant Jeanne
stood as if some one had struck her a blow. Then, slowly, she
turned. The flush was gone from her face. Her beautiful mouth was
quivering, and Philip fancied that he could hear the low sobbing
of her breath. With a cry in which he uttered no name, but which
was meant for her, he sprang forward into the clear space of the
pier. She saw him, and darted back among her people. He would have
followed, but Miss Brokaw was coming to him now, her hand held out
to him, and a step behind were Brokaw and the factor.

"Philip!" she cried.

He spoke no word as he crushed her hand. The hot grip of his
fingers, the deep flush in his face, was interpreted by her as a
welcome which it did not require speech to strengthen. He shook
hands with Brokaw, and as the three followed after the factor his
eyes sought vainly for Pierre and Jeanne.

They were gone, and he felt suddenly a thrill of repugnance at the
gentle pressure of Eileen Brokaw's hand upon his arm.





VIII


Philip did not see the hundred staring eyes that followed in
wonderment the tall, beautiful girl who walked at his side. He
knew that Miss Brokaw was talking and laughing, and that he was
nodding his head and answering her, while his brain raged for an
idea that would give him an excuse for leaving her to follow
Jeanne and Pierre. The facts that Gregson had left him so
strangely, that Eileen had come with her father, and that, instead
of clearing up the mystery in which they were so deeply involved,
the arrival of the London ship had even more hopelessly entangled
them, were forgotten for the moment in the desire to intercept
Jeanne and Pierre before they could leave Churchill. Miss Brokaw
herself unconsciously gave him the opportunity for which he was
seeking.

"You don't look very happy, Philip," she exclaimed, in a chiding
voice, meant only for his ears. "I thought--perhaps--my coming
would make you glad."

Philip caught eagerly at the half question in her voice.

"I feared you would notice it," he said, quickly. "I was afraid
you would think me indifferent because I did not go out to meet
you in the boat, and because I stood hidden at the end of the pier
when you landed. But I was looking for a man. I have been hunting
for him for a long time. And I saw his face just as we came
through the crowd. That is why I am--am rattled," he laughed.
"Will you excuse me if I go back? Can you find some excuse for the
others? I will return in a few minutes, and then you will not say
that I am unhappy."

Miss Brokaw drew her hand from his arm.

"Surely I will excuse you," she cried. "Hurry, or you may lose
him. I would like to go with you if it is going to be exciting."

Philip turned to Brokaw and the factor, who were close behind
them.

"I am compelled to leave you here," he explained. "I have excused
myself to Miss Brokaw, and will rejoin you almost immediately."

He lost no time in hurrying back to the shore of the Bay. As he
had expected, Jeanne and her companion were no longer in sight.
There was only one direction in which they could have disappeared
so quickly, and this was toward the cliff. Once hidden by the
fringe of forest, he hastened his steps until he was almost
running. He had reached the base of the huge mass of rock that
rose up from the sea, when down the narrow trail that led to the
cliff there came a figure to meet him. It was an Indian boy, and
he advanced to question him. If Jeanne and Pierre had passed that
way the boy must surely have seen them.

Before he had spoken the lad ran toward him, holding out something
in his hand. The question on Philip's lips changed to an
exclamation of joy when he recognized the handkerchief which he
had dropped upon the rock a few nights before, or one so near like
it that he could not have told them apart. It was tied into a
knot, and he felt the crumpling of paper under the pressure of his
fingers. He almost tore the bit of lace and linen in his eagerness
to rescue the paper, which a moment later he held in his fingers.
Three short lines, written in a fine, old-fashioned hand, were all
that it held for him. But they were sufficient to set his heart,
beating wildly.

 Will Monsieur come to the top of the rock to-night, some time
between the hours of nine and ten.

 There was no signature to the note, but Philip knew that only
Jeanne could have written it, for the letters were almost of
miscroscopic smallness, as delicate as the bit of lace in which
they had been delivered, and of a quaintness of style which added
still more to the bewildering mystery which already surrounded
these people. He read the lines half a dozen times, and then
turned to find that the Indian boy was slipping sway through the
rocks.

"Here--you," he commanded, in English. "Come back!"

The boy's white teeth gleamed in a laugh as he waved his hand and
leaped farther away. From Philip his eyes shifted in a quick,
searching glance to the top of the cliff. In a flash Philip
followed its direction. He understood the meaning of the look.
From the cliff Jeanne and Pierre had seen his approach, and their
meeting with the Indian boy had made it possible for them to
intercept him in this manner. They were probably looking down upon
him now, and in the gladness of the moment Philip laughed up at
the bare rocks and waved his cap above his head as a signal of his
acceptance of the strange invitation he had received.

Vaguely he wondered why they had set the meeting for that night,
when in three or four minutes he could have joined them up there
in broad day. But the central tangle of the mystery that had grown
up about him during the past few days was too perplexing to
embroider with such a minor detail as this, and he turned back
toward Churchill with the feeling that everything was working in
his favor. During the next few hours he would clear up the tangle,
and in addition to that he would meet Jeanne and Pierre. It was
the thought of Jeanne, and not of the surprises which he was about
to explain, that stirred his blood as he hurried back to the Fort.

It was his intention to return to Eileen and her father. But he
changed this. He would first hunt up Gregson and begin his work
there. He knew that the artist would be expecting him, and he went
directly to the cabin, escaping notice by following along the
fringe of the forest.

Gregson was pacing back and forth across the cabin floor when
Philip arrived. His steps were quick and excited. His hands were
thrust deep in his trousers pockets. The butts of innumerable
half-smoked cigarettes lay scattered under his feet. He ceased his
restless movement upon his companion's interruption, and for a
moment or two gazed at Philip in blank silence.

"Well," he said, at last, "have you got anything to say?"

"Nothing," said Philip. "It's beyond me, Greggy. For Heaven's sake
give me an explanation!"

There was nothing womanish in the hard lines of Gregson's face
now. He spoke with the suggestion of a sneer.

"You knew--all the time," he said, coldly. "You knew that Miss
Brokaw and the girl whom I drew were one and the same person. What
was the object of your little sensation?"

Philip ignored his question. He stepped quickly up to Gregson and
seized him by the arm.

"It is impossible!" he cried, in a low voice. "They cannot be the
same person. That ship out there has not touched land since she
left Halifax. Until she hove in sight off Churchill she hasn't
been within two hundred miles of a coast this side of Hudson's
Strait. Miss Brokaw is as new to this country as you. It is beyond
all reason to suppose anything else."

"Nevertheless," said Gregson, quietly, "it was Miss Brokaw whom I
saw the other day, and that is Miss Brokaw's picture."

He pointed to the sketch, and freed his arm to light another
cigarette. There was a peculiar tone of finality in his voice
which warned Philip that no amount of logic or arguing on his part
would change his friend's belief. Gregson looked at him over his
lighted match.

"It was Miss Brokaw," he said again. "Perhaps it is within reason
to suppose that she came to Churchill in a balloon, dropped into
town for luncheon, and departed in a balloon, descending by some
miraculous chance aboard the ship that was bringing her father.
However it may have happened, she was in Churchill a few days ago.
On that hypothesis I am going to work, and as a consequence I am
going to ask you for the indefinite loan of the Lord Fitzhugh
letter. Will you give me your word to say nothing of that letter--
for a few days?"

"It is almost necessary to show it to Brokaw," hesitated Philip.

"Almost--but not quite," Gregson caught him up. "Brokaw knows the
seriousness of the situation without that letter. See here, Phil--
you go out and fight, and let me handle this end of the business.
Don't reveal me to the Brokaws. I don't want to meet--her--yet,
though God knows if it wasn't for my confounded friendship for you
I'd go over there with you this minute. She was even more
beautiful than when I saw her--before."

"Then there is a difference," laughed Philip, meaningly.

"Not a difference, but a little better view," corrected the
artist.

"Now, if we could only find the other girl, what a mess you'd be
in, Greggy! By George, but this is beginning to have its humorous
as well as its tragic side. I'd give a thousand dollars to have
this other golden-haired beauty appear upon the scene!"

"I'll give a thousand if you produce her," retorted Gregson.

"Good!" laughed Philip, holding out a hand. "I'll report again
this afternoon or to-night."

Inwardly he felt himself in no humorous mood as he retraced his
steps to Churchill. He had thought to begin his work of clearing
up the puzzling situation with Gregson, and Gregson had failed him
completely by his persistence in the belief that Miss Brokaw was
the girl whose face he had seen more than a week before. Was it
possible, after all, that the ship had touched at some point up
the coast? The supposition was preposterous. Yet before rejoining
the Brokaws he sought out the captain and found that the company's
vessel had come directly from Halifax without a change or stop in
her regular course. The word of the company's captain cleared up
his doubts in one direction; it mystified him more than ever in
another. He was convinced that Gregson had not seen Miss Brokaw
until that morning. But who was Eileen's double? Where was she at
this moment? What peculiar combination of circumstance had drawn
them both to Churchill at this particularly significant time? It
was impossible for him not to associate the girl whom Gregson had
encountered, and who so closely resembled Eileen, with Lord
Fitzhugh and the plot against his company. And it struck him with
a certain feeling of dread that, if his suspicions were true,
Jeanne and Pierre must also be mixed up in the affair. For had not
Jeanne, in her error, greeted Eileen as though she were a dear
friend?

He went directly to the factor's house, and knocked at the door
opening into the rooms occupied by Brokaw and his daughter. Brokaw
admitted him, and at Philip's searching glance about the room he
nodded toward a closed inner door and said:

"Eileen is resting. It's been a hard trip on her, Phil, and she
hasn't slept for two consecutive nights since we left Halifax."

Philip's keen glance told him that Brokaw himself had not slept
much. The promoter's eyes were heavy, with little puffy bags under
them. But otherwise he betrayed no signs of unrest or lack of
rest. He motioned Philip to a chair close to a huge fireplace in
which a pile of birch was leaping into flame, offered him a cigar,
and plunged immediately into business.

"It's hell, Philip," he said, in a hard, quiet voice, as though he
were restraining an outburst of passion with effort. "In another
three months we'd have been on a working basis, earning dividends.
I've even gone to the point of making contracts that show us five
hundred per cent, profit. And now--this!"

He dashed his half-burned cigar into the fire, and viciously bit
the end from another.

Philip was lighting his own, and there was a moment's silence,
broken sharply by the financier.

"Are your men prepared to fight?"

"If it's necessary," replied Philip. "We can at least depend upon
a part of them, especially the men at Blind Indian Lake. But--this
fighting--Why do you think it will come to that? If there is
fighting we are ruined."

"If the people rise against us in a body--yes, we are ruined. That
is what we must not permit. It is our one chance. I have done
everything in my power to beat this movement against us down
south, and have failed. Our enemies are completely masked. They
have won popular sentiment through the newspapers. Their next move
is to strike directly at us. Whatever is to happen will happen
soon. The plan is to attack us, to destroy our property, and the
movement is to be advertised as a retaliation for heinous outrages
perpetrated by our men. It is possible that the attack will not be
by northerners alone, but by men brought in for the purpose. The
result will be the same--if it succeeds. The attack is planned to
be a surprise. Our one chance is to meet it, to completely
frustrate it--to strike an overwhelming blow, and to capture
enough of our assailants to give us the evidence we must have."

Brokaw was excited. He emphasized his words with angry sweeps of
his arms. He clenched his fists, and his face grew red. He was not
like the old, shrewd, indomitable Brokaw, completely master of
himself, never revealing himself beyond the unruffled veil of his
self-possession, and Philip was surprised. He had expected that
Brokaw's wily brain would bring with it half a dozen schemes for
the quiet undoing of their enemies. And now here was Brokaw, the
man who always hedged himself in with legal breast-works--who
never revealed himself to the shot of his enemies--enlisting
himself for a fight in the open! Philip had told Gregson that
there would be a fight. He was firmly convinced that there would
be a fight. But he had never believed that Brokaw would come to
join in it. He leaned toward the financier, his face flushed a
little by the warmth of the fire and by the knowledge that Brokaw
was relinquishing the situation entirely into his hands. If it
came to fighting, he would win. He was confident of himself there.
But--

"What will be the result if we win?" he asked.

"If we secure those who will give the evidence we need--evidence
that the movement against us is a plot to destroy our company, the
government will stand by us," replied Brokaw. "I have sounded the
situation there. I have filed a formal declaration to the effect
that such a movement is on foot, and have received a promise that
the commissioner of police will investigate the matter. But before
that happens our enemies will strike. There is no time for red
tape or investigations. We must achieve our own salvation. And to
achieve that we must fight."

"And if we lose?"

Brokaw lifted his hands and shoulders with a significant gesture.

"The moral effect will be tremendous," he said. "It will be shown
that the entire north is inimical to our company, and the
government will withdraw our option. We will be ruined. Our
stockholders will lose every cent invested."

In moments of mental energy Philip was restless. He rose from his
chair now and moved softly back and forth across the carpeted
floor of the big room, shrouded in tobacco smoke. Should he break
his word to Gregson and tell Brokaw of Lord Fitzhugh? But, on
second thought, what good would come of it? Brokaw was already
aware of the seriousness of the situation. In some one of his
unaccountable ways he had learned that their enemies were to
strike almost immediately, and his own revelation of the Fitzhugh
letters would but strengthen this evidence. He would keep his
faith with Gregson for the promised day or two. For an hour the
two men were alone in the room. At the end of that time their
plans were settled. The next morning Philip would leave for Blind
Indian Lake and prepare for war. Brokaw would follow two or three
days later.

A heavy weight seemed lifted from Philip's shoulders when he left
Brokaw. After months of worry and weeks of physical inaction he
saw his way clear for the first time. And for the first time, too,
something seemed to have come into his life that filled him with a
strange exhilaration, and made him forgetful of the gloom that had
settled over him during these last months. That night he would see
Jeanne. His body thrilled at the thought, until for a time he
forgot that he would also see and talk with Eileen. A few days
before he had told Gregson that it would be suicidal to fight the
northerners; now he was eager for action, eager to begin and end
the affair--to win or lose. If he had stopped to analyze the
change in himself he would have found that the beautiful girl whom
he had first seen on the moonlit rock was at the bottom of it. And
yet Jeanne was a northerner, one of those against whom his actions
must be directed. But he had confidence in himself, confidence in
what that night would bring forth. He was like one freed from a
bondage that had oppressed him for a long time, and the fact that
he might be compelled to fight Jeanne's own people did not destroy
his hopefulness, the new joy and excitement that he had found in
life. As he hurried back to his cabin he told himself that both
Jeanne and Pierre had read what he had sent to them in the
handkerchief; their response was a proof that they understood him,
and deep down a voice kept telling him that if it came to fighting
they three, Pierre, Jeanne, and himself, would rise or fall
together. A few hours had transformed him into Gregson's old
appreciation of the fighting man. Long and tedious months of
diplomacy, of political intrigue, of bribery and dishonest
financiering, in which he had played but the part of a helpless
machine, were gone. Now he held the whip-hand; Brokaw had
acknowledged his own surrender. He was to fight--a clean, fair
fight on his part, and his blood leaped in every vein like
marshaling armies. That nights on the rock, he would reveal
himself frankly to Pierre and Jeanne. He would tell them of the
plot to disrupt the company, and of the work ahead of him. And
after that--

He thrust open the door of his cabin, eager to enlist Gregson in
his enthusiasm. The artist was not in. Philip noticed that the
cartridge-belt and the revolver which usually hung over Gregson's
bunk were gone. He never entered the cabin without looking at the
sketch of Eileen Brokaw. Something about it seemed to fascinate
him, to challenge his presence. Now it was missing from the wall.

He threw off his coat and hat, filled his pipe, and began
gathering up his few possessions, ready for packing. It was noon
before he was through, and Gregson had not returned. He boiled
himself some coffee and sat down to wait. At five o'clock he was
to eat supper with the Brokaws and the factor; Eileen, through her
father, had asked him to join her an hour or two earlier in the
big room. He waited until four, and then left a brief note for
Gregson upon the table.

It was growing dusk in the forest. From the top of the ridge
Philip caught the last red glow of the sun, sinking far to the
south and west. A faint radiance of it still swept over his head
and mingled with the thickening gray gloom of the northern sea.
Across the dip in the Bay the huge, white-capped cliff seemed to
loom nearer and more gigantic in the whimsical light. For a few
moments a red bar shot across it, and as the golden fire faded and
died away Philip could not but think it was like a torch beckoning
to him. A few hours more, and where that light had been he would
see Jeanne. And now, down there, Eileen was waiting for him.

His pulse quickened as he passed beyond the ancient fort, over the
burial-place of the dead, and into Churchill. He met no one at the
factor's, and the door leading into Miss Brokaw's room was partly
ajar. A great fire was burning in the fireplace, and he saw Eileen
seated in the rich glow of it, smiling at him as he entered. He
closed the door, and when he turned she had risen and was holding
out her hands to him. She had dressed for him, almost as on that
night of the Brokaw ball. In the flashing play of the fire her
exquisite arms and shoulders shone with dazzling beauty; her eyes
laughed at him; her hair rippled in a golden flood. Faintly there
came to him, filling the room slowly, tingling his nerves, the
sweet scent of heliotrope--the perfume that had filled his
nostrils on that other night, a long time ago, the sweet scent
that had come to him in the handkerchief dropped on the rock, the
breath of the bit of lace that had bound Jeanne's hair!

Eileen moved toward him. "Philip," she said, "now are you glad to
see me?"





IX


Her voice broke the spell that had held him for a moment.

"I am glad to see you," he cried, quickly, seizing both her hands.
"Only I haven't quite yet awakened from my dream. It seems too
wonderful, almost unreal. Are you the old Eileen who used to
shudder when I told you of a bit of jungle and wild beasts, and
who laughed at me because I loved to sleep out-of-doors and tramp
mountains, instead of decently behaving myself at home? I demand
an explanation. It must be a wonderful change--"

"There has been a change," she interrupted him. "Sit down, Philip
--there!" She nestled herself on a stool, close to his feet, and
looked up at him, her hands clasped under her chin, radiantly
lovely. "You told me once that girls like me simply fluttered over
the top of life like butterflies; that we couldn't understand
life, or live it, until somewhere--at some time--we came into
touch with nature. Do you remember? I was consumed with rage then
--at your frankness, at what I considered your impertinence. I
couldn't get what you said out of my mind. And I'm trying it."

"And you like it?" He put the question almost eagerly.

"Yes." She was looking at him steadily, her beautiful gray eyes
meeting his own in a silence that stirred him deeply. He had never
seen her more beautiful. Was it the firelight on her face, the
crimson leapings of the flames, that gave her skin a richer hue?
Was it the mingling of fire and shadow that darkened her cheeks?
An impulse made him utter the words which passed through his mind.

"You have already tried it," he said. "I can see the effects of it
in your face. It would take weeks in the forests to do that."

The gray eyes faltered; the flush deepened.

"Yes, I have tried it. I spent a half of the summer at our cottage
on the lake."

"But it is not tan," he persisted, thrilled for a moment by the
discoveries he was making. "It is the wind; it is the open; it is
the smoke of camp-fires; it is the elixir of balsam and cedar and
pine. That is what I see in your face--unless it is the fire."

"It is the fire, partly," she said. "And the rest is the wind and
the open of the seas we have come across, and the sting of
icebergs. Ugh: my face feels like nettles!"

She rubbed her cheeks with her two hands, and then held up one
hand to Philip.

"Look," she said. "It's as rough as sand-paper. Isn't that a
change? I didn't even wear gloves on the ship. I'm an enthusiast.
I'm going down there with you, and I'm going to fight. Now have
you got anything to say against me, Mr. Philip?"

There was a lightness in her words, and yet not in her voice. In
her manner was an uneasiness, mingled with an almost childish
eagerness for him to answer, which Philip could not understand. He
fancied that once or twice he had caught the faintest sign of a
break in her voice.

"You really mean to hazard this adventure?" he cried, softly, in
his astonishment. "You, whom wild horses couldn't drag into the
wilderness, as you once told me!"

"Yes," she affirmed, drawing her stool back out of the increasing
heat of the fire. Her face was almost entirely in shadow now, and
she did not look at Philip. "I am beginning to--to love
adventure," she went on, in an even voice. "It was an adventure
coming up. And when we landed down there something curious
happened. Did you see a girl who thought that she knew me--"

She stopped, and a sudden flash of the fire lit up her eyes, fixed
on him intently from between her shielding hands.

"I saw her run out and speak to you," said Philip, his heart
beating at double-quick. He leaned over so that he was looking
squarely into Miss Brokaw's face.

"Did you know her?" she asked.

"I have seen her only twice--once before she spoke to you."

"If I meet her again I shall apologize," said Eileen. "It was her
mistake, and she startled me. When she ran out to me like that,
and held out her hands I--I thought of beggars."

"Beggars!" almost shouted Philip. "A beggar!" He caught himself
with a laugh, and to cover his sudden emotion turned to lay a
fresh piece of birch on the fire. "We don't have beggars up here."

The door opened behind them and Brokaw entered. Philip's face was
red when he greeted him. For half an hour after that he cursed
himself for not being as clever as Gregson. He knew that there was
a change in Eileen Brokaw, a change which nature had not worked
alone, as she wished him to believe. Then, and at supper, he tried
to fathom her. At times he detected the metallic ring of what was
unreal and make-believe in what she said; at other times she
seemed stirred by emotions which added immeasurably to the
sweetness and truthfulness of her voice. She was nervous. He found
her eyes frequently seeking her father's face, and more than once
they were filled with a mysterious questioning, as if within
Brokaw's brain there lurked hidden things which were new to her,
and which she was struggling to understand. She no longer held the
old fascination for Philip, and yet he conceded that she was more
beautiful than ever. Until to-night he had never seen the shadow
of sadness in her eyes; he had never seen them darken as they
darkened now, when she listened with almost feverish interest to
the words which passed between himself and Brokaw. He was certain
that it was not a whim that had brought her into the north. It was
impossible for him to believe that he had piqued at her vanity
until she had leaped into action, as she had suggested to him
while they were sitting before the fire. Could it be that she had
accompanied her father because he--Philip Whittemore--was in the
north?

The thought drew a slow flush into his face, and his uneasiness
increased when he knew that she was looking at him. He was glad
when it came time for cigars, and Eileen excused herself. He
opened the door for her, and told her that he probably would not
see her again until morning, as he had an important engagement for
the evening. She gave him her hand, and for a moment he felt the
clinging of her fingers about his own.

"Good night," she whispered.

"Good night."

She drew her hand half away, and then, suddenly, raised her eyes
straight to his own. They were calm, quiet, beautiful, and yet
there came a quick little catch in her throat as she leaned so
close to him that she touched his breast, and said:

"It will be best--best for everything--everybody--if you can
influence father to stay at Fort Churchill."

She did not wait for him to reply, but hurried toward her room.
For a moment Philip stared after her in amazement. Then he took a
step as if to follow her, to call her back. The impulse left him
as quickly as it came, and he rejoined Brokaw and the factor.

He looked at his watch. It was seven o'clock. At half-past seven
he shook hands with the two men, lighted a fresh cigar, and passed
out into the night. It was early for his meeting with Pierre and
Jeanne, but he went down to the shore and walked slowly in the
direction of the cliff. He was still an hour early when he arrived
at the great rock, and sat down, with his face turned to the sea.

It was a white, radiant night, such as he had seen in the tropics.
Only here, in the north, his vision reached to greater distances.
Churchill lay lifeless in its pool of light; the ship hung like a
black silhouette in the distance, with a cloud of jet-black smoke
rising straight up from its funnels, and spreading out high up
against the sky, a huge, ebon monster that cast its shadow for
half a mile over the Bay. The shadow held Philip's eyes. Now it
was like a gigantic face, now like a monster beast--now it reached
out in the form of a great threatening hand, as though somewhere
in the mystery of the north it sought a spirit-victim as potent as
itself.

Then the spell of it was broken. From the end of the shadow, which
reached almost to the base of the cliff on which Philip sat, there
came a sound. It was a clear, metallic sound that left the
vibration of steel in the air, and Philip leaned over the edge of
the rock. Below him the shadow was broken into a pool of rippling
starlight. He heard the faint dip of paddles, and suddenly a canoe
shot from the shadow out into the clear light of the moon and
stars.

It was a large canoe. In it he could make out four figures. Three
of them were paddling; the fourth sat motionless in the bow. They
passed under him swiftly, guiding their canoe so that it was soon
hidden in the shelter of the cliff. By the faint reflections cast
by the disturbed water, Philip saw that the occupants of the canoe
had made an effort to conceal themselves by following the course
of the dense shadow. Only the chance sound had led him to observe
them.

Under ordinary circumstances the passing of a strange canoe at
night would have had no significance for him. But at the present
time it troubled him. The manner of its approach through the
shadow, the strange quiet of its occupants, the stealth with which
they had shot the canoe under the cliff, were all unusual. Could
the incident have anything to do with Jeanne and Pierre?

He waited until he heard the tiny bell in his watch tinkle the
half-hour, and then he set out slowly over the moonlit rocks to
the north. Jeanne and Pierre would surely come from that
direction. It was impossible to miss them. He walked without sound
in his moccasins, keeping close to the edge of the cliff so that
he could look out over the Bay. Two or three hundred yards beyond
the big rock the sea-wall swung in sharply, disclosing the open
water, like a still, silvery sheet, for a mile or more. Philip
scanned it for the canoe, but as far as he could see there was not
a shadow.

For a quarter of a mile he walked over the rocks, then returned.
It was nine o'clock. The moment had arrived for the appearance of
Jeanne and Pierre. He resumed his patrol of the cliff, and with
each moment his nervousness increased. What if Jeanne failed him?
What if she did not come to the rock? The mere thought made his
heart sink with a sudden painful throb. Until now the fear that
Jeanne might disappoint him, that she might not keep the tryst,
had not entered his head. His faith in this girl, whom he had seen
but twice, was supreme.

A second and a third time he patrolled the quarter mile of cliff.
Again his watch tinkled the half-hour, and he knew that the last
minutes of the appointed time had come.

The third and last time he went beyond the quarter-mile limit,
searching in the white distances beyond. A low wind was rising
from the Bay; it rustled in the spruce and balsam tops of the
forest that reached up to the barren whiteness of the rock plateau
on which he stood; under him he heard, growing more and more
distinct, the moaning wash of the swelling tide. A moment of
despair possessed him, and he felt that he had lost.

Suddenly the wind brought to him a different sound--a shout far
down the cliff, a second cry, and then the scream of a woman,
deadened by the wash of the sea and the increasing sweep of the
wind among the trees.

He stood for a moment powerless, listening. The wind lulled, and
the woman's cry now came to him again--a voice that was filled
with terror rising in a wild appeal for help. With an answering
shout he ran like a swift-footed animal along the cliff. It was
Jeanne who was calling! Who else but Jeanne would be out there in
the gray night--Jeanne and Pierre? He listened as he ran, but
there came no other sound. At last he stopped, and drew in a great
breath, to send out a shout that would reach their ears.

Above the fierce beating of his heart, the throbbing intake of his
breath, he heard sounds which were not of the wind or the sea. He
ran on, and suddenly the cliff dropped from under his feet, and he
found himself on the edge of a great rift in the wall of rock,
looking across upon a strange scene. In the brilliant moonlight,
with his back against a rock, stood Pierre, his glistening rapier
in his hand, his thin, lithe body bent for the attack of three men
who faced him. It was but a moment's tableau. The men rushed in.
Muffled cries, blows, a single clash of steel, and Pierre's voice
rose above the sound of conflict. "For the love of God, give me
help, M'sieur!" He had seen Philip rush up to the edge of the
break in the cliff, and as he fought he cried out again.

"Shoot, M'sieur! In a moment it will be too late!"

Philip had drawn his heavy revolver. He watched for an
opportunity. The men were fighting now so that Pierre had been
forced between his assailants and the breach in the wall. There
was no chance to fire without hitting him.

"Run, Pierre!" shouted Philip. "Run--"

He fired once, over the heads of the fighters, and as Pierre
suddenly darted to one side in obedience to his command there came
for the first time a shot from the other side. The bullet whistled
close to his ears. A second shot, and Pierre fell down like one
dead among the rocks. Again Philip fired--a third and a fourth
time, and one of the three who were disappearing in the white
gloom stumbled over a rock, and fell as Pierre had fallen. His
companions stopped, picked him up, and staggered on with him.
Philip's last shot missed, and before he could reload they were
lost among the upheaved masses of the cliff.

"Pierre!" he called. "Ho! Pierre Couchee!"

There was no answer from the other side.

He ran along the edge of the break, and in the direction of the
forest he found a place where he could descend. In his haste he
fell; his hands were scratched, blood flowed from a cut in his
forehead when he dragged himself up to the face of the cliff
again. He tried to shout when he saw a figure drag itself up from
among the rocks, but his almost superhuman exertions had left him
voiceless. His wind whistled from between his parted lips when he
came to Pierre.

Pierre was supporting himself against a rock. His face was
streaming with blood. In his hand he held what remained of the
rapier, which had broken off close to the hilt. His eyes were
blazing like a madman's, and his face was twisted with an agony
that sent a thrill of horror through Philip.

"My hurt is nothing--nothing-M'sieur!" he gasped, understanding
the look in Philip's face. "It is Jeanne! They have gone--gone
with Jeanne!" The rapier slipped from his hand and he slid weakly
down against the rock. Philip dropped upon his knees, and with his
handkerchief began wiping the blood from the half-breed's face.
For a few moments Pierre's head hung limp against his shoulder.

"What is it, Pierre?" he urged. "Tell me--quick! They have gone
with Jeanne!"

Pierre's body grew rigid. With one great effort he seemed to
marshal all of his strength, and straightened himself.

"Listen, M'sieur," he said, speaking calmly. "They set upon us as
we were going to meet you at the rock. There were four. One of
them is dead--back there. The others--with Jeanne--have gone in
the canoe. It is death--worse than death--for her--"

His body writhed. In a passion he strove to rise to his feet. Then
with a groan he sank back, and for a moment Philip thought he was
dying.

"I will go, Pierre," he cried. "I will bring her back. I swear
it."

Pierre's hand detained him as he went to rise.

"You swear--"

"Yes."

"At the next break--there is a canoe. They have gone for the
Churchill--"

Pierre's voice was growing weaker. In a spasm of sudden fear at
the dizziness which was turning the night black for him he
clutched at Philip's arm.

"If you save her, M'sieur, do not bring her back," he whispered,
hoarsely. "Take her to Fort o' God. Lose not an hour--not a
minute. Trust no one. Hide yourselves. Fight--kill--but take her
to Fort o' God! You will do this--M'sieur--you promise--"

He fell back limp. Philip lowered him gently, holding his head so
that he could look into the staring eyes that were still open and
understanding.

"I will go, Pierre," he said. "I will take her to Fort o' God. And
you--"

A shadow was creeping over Pierre's eyes. He was still fighting to
understand, fighting to hold for another breath or two the
consciousness that was fast slipping from him.

"Listen," cried Philip, striving to rouse him. "You will not die.
The bullet grazed your head, and the wound has already stopped
bleeding. To-morrow you must go to Churchill and hunt up a man
named Gregson--the man I was with when you and Jeanne came to see
the ship. Tell him that an important thing has happened, and that
he must tell the others I have gone to the camps. He will
understand. Tell him--tell him--"

He struggled to find some final word for Gregson. Pierre still
looked at him, his eyes half closed now.

Philip bent close down.

"Tell him," he said, "that I am on the trail of Lord Fitzhugh!"

Scarcely had he uttered the name when Pierre's closing eyes shot
open. A groaning cry burst from his lips, and, as if that name had
aroused the last spark of life and strength within him into
action, he wrenched himself from Philip's arms, striving to speak.
A trickle of fresh blood ran over his face. Incoherent sounds
rattled in his throat, and then, overcome by his effort, he
dropped back unconscious. Philip wound his handkerchief about the
wounded man's head and straightened out his limbs. Then he rose to
his feet and reloaded his revolver. His hands were steady now. His
brain was clear; the enervating thrill of excitement had gone from
his body. Only his heart beat like a racing engine.

He turned and ran in the direction which Pierre's assailants had
taken, his head lowered, his revolver held in front of him, on a
level with his breast. He had not gone a hundred yards when
something stopped him. In his path, with its face turned straight
up to the moonlit sky, lay the body of a man. For an instant
Philip bent over it. The broken blade of Pierre's rapier glistened
under the man's throat. One lifeless hand clutched at it, as
though in the last moment of life he had tried to draw it forth.
The face was distorted, the eyes were still open, the lips parted.
Death had come with terrible suddenness.

Philip bent lower, and stared into the face of the dead man. Where
had he seen that face before?

Suddenly he remembered. He drew back, and a cold sweat seemed to
break out all at once over his face and body. This man who lay
with the broken blade of Pierre Couchee's rapier in his breast had
come ashore from the London ship that day in company with Eileen
and her father!

For a space he was overwhelmed by the discovery. Everything that
had happened--the scene upon the rock when he first met Jeanne,
the arrival of the ship, the moment's tableau on the pier when
Jeanne and Eileen stood face to face--rushed upon him now as he
gazed down into the staring eyes at his feet. What did it all
mean? Why had Lord Fitzhugh's name been sufficient to drag the
half-breed back from the brink of unconsciousness? What
significance was there in this strange combination of
circumstances that persisted in drawing Pierre and Jeanne into the
plot that threatened himself? Had there been truth, after all, in
those last words that he impressed upon the fainting senses of
Pierre Couchee's message to Gregson?

He waited to answer none of the questions that leaped through his
brain. To-morrow some one would find Pierre, or Pierre would crawl
down into Churchill. And then there would be the dead man to
account for. He shuddered as he returned his revolver into his
holster and braced his limbs. It was an unpleasant task, but he
knew that it must be done--to save Pierre. He lifted the body
clear of the rocks, and bending under its weight carried it to the
edge of the cliff. Far below sounded the wash of the sea. He
shoved his burden over the edge, and listened. After a moment
there came a dull splash.

Then he hastened on, as Pierre had guided him.





X


Soon Philip slackened his pace, and looked anxiously ahead of him.
From where he stood the cliff sloped down to a white strip of
beach that reached out into the night as far as he could see,
hemmed close in by the black gloom of the forest. Half-way down
the slope the moonlight was cut by a dark streak, and he found
this to be the second break. He had no difficulty in descending.
Its sides were smooth, as though worn by water. At the bottom
white, dry sand slipped under his feet. He made his way between
the walls, and darkness shut him in. The trail grew rougher. Near
the shore he stumbled blindly among huge rocks and piles of
crumbling slate, wondering why Jeanne and Pierre had come this way
when they might have taken a smoother road. Close to the stony
beach, where the light was a little better, he made out the canoe
which Pierre had drawn into the shadows.

Not until he had dragged it into the moonlight at the edge of the
water did he see that it was equipped as if for a long journey.
Close to the stern was a bulging pack, with a rifle strapped
across it. Two or three smaller caribou-skin bags lay in the
center of the canoe. In the bow was a thick nest of bearskin, and
he knew that this was for Jeanne.

Cautiously Philip launched himself, and with silent sweeps of the
paddle that made scarcely the sound of a ripple in the water set
out in the direction of Churchill. Jeanne's captors had a
considerable start of him, but he felt confident of his ability to
overtake them shortly if Pierre had spoken with truth when he said
that they would head for the Churchill River. He had observed the
caution with which Pierre's assailants had approached the cliff,
and he was sure that they would double that caution in their
return, especially as their attack had been interrupted at the
last moment. For this reason he paddled without great haste,
keeping well within the concealment of the precipitous shore, with
his ears and eyes keenly alive to discover a sign of those who
were ahead of him.

Opposite the rock where Pierre and Jeanne were to have met him he
stopped and stood up in the canoe. The wind had dispelled the
smoke shadow. Between him and the distant ship lay an unclouded
sea. Two-thirds of the distance to the vessel he made out the
larger canoe, rising and falling with the smooth undulations of
the tide. He sank upon his knees again and unstrapped Pierre's
rifle. There was a cartridge in the chamber. He made sure that the
magazine was loaded, and resumed his paddling.

His mind worked rapidly. Within half an hour, if he desired, he
could overtake the other canoe. And what then? There were three to
one, if it came to a fight--and how could he rescue Jeanne without
a fight? His blood was pounding eagerly, almost with pleasure at
the promise of what was ahead of him, and he laughed softly to
himself as he thought of the odds.

The ship loomed nearer; the canoe vanished behind it. A brief
stop, a dozen words of explanation, and Philip knew that he could
secure assistance from the vessel. After all, would that not be
the wisest course for him to pursue? For a moment he hesitated,
and paddled more slowly. If others joined with him in the rescue
of Jeanne what excuse could he offer for not bringing her back to
Churchill? What would happen if he returned with her? Why had
Pierre roused himself from something that was almost death to
entreat him to take Jeanne to Fort o' God?

At the thought of Fort o' God a new strength leaped into his arms
and body, urging him on to cope with the situation single-handed.
If he rescued Jeanne alone, and went on with her as he had
promised Pierre, many things that were puzzling him would be
explained. It occurred to him again that Jeanne and Pierre might
be the key to the mysterious plot that promised to crash out the
life of the enterprise he had founded in the north. He found
reasons for this belief. Why had Lord Fitzhugh's name had such a
startling effect upon Pierre? Why was one of his assailants a man
fresh from the London ship that had borne Eileen Brokaw and her
father as passengers? He felt that Jeanne could explain these
things, as well as her brother. She could explain the strange
scene on the pier, when for a moment she had stood crushed and
startled before Eileen. She could clear up the mystery of
Gregson's sketch, for if there were two Eileen Brokaws, Jeanne
would know. With these arguments he convinced himself that he
should go on alone. Yet, behind them there was another and more
powerful motive. He confessed to himself that he would willingly
accept double the chances against him to achieve Jeanne's rescue
without assistance and to accompany her to Fort o' God. The
thought of their being together, of the girl's companionship--
perhaps for days--thrilled him with exquisite anticipation. An
hour or so ago he had been satisfied in the assurance that he
would see her for a few minutes on the cliff. Since then fate had
played his way. Jeanne was his own, to save, to defend, to carry
on to Fort o' God.

Not for a moment did he hesitate at the danger ahead of him, and
yet his pursuit was filled with caution. Gregson, the diplomat,
would have seen the necessity of halting at the ship for help;
Philip was confident in himself. He knew that he would have at
least three against him, for he was satisfied that the man whom he
had wounded on the cliff was still in fighting trim. There might
be others whom he had not taken into account.

He passed so close under the stern of the ship that his canoe
scraped against her side. For a few minutes the vessel had
obstructed his view, but now he saw again, a quarter of a mile
distant, the craft which he was pursuing. Jeanne's captors were
heading straight for the river, and as the canoe was now partly
broadside to him he could easily make out the figures in her, but
not distinctly enough to make sure of their number. He shoved out
boldly into the moonlight, and, instead of following in his former
course, he turned at a sharp angle in the direction of the shore.
If the others saw him, which was probable, they would think that
he was making a landing from the ship. Once he was in the deep
fringe of shadow along the shore he could redouble his exertions
and draw nearer to them without being observed.

No sooner had he readied the sheltering gloom than he bent to his
paddle and the light birch-bark fairly hissed through the water.
Not until he found himself abreast of the pursued did it occur to
him that he could beat them out to the mouth of the Churchill and
lie in wait for them. Every stroke of his paddle widened the
distant between him and the larger canoe. Fifteen minutes later he
reached the edge of the huge delta of wild rice and reeds through
which the sluggish volume of the river emptied into the Bay. The
chances were that the approaching canoe would take the nearest
channel into the main stream, and Philip concealed himself so that
it would have to pass within twenty yards of him.

From his ambuscade he looked out upon the approaching canoe. He
was puzzled by the slowness of its progress. At times it seemed to
stand still, and he could distinguish no movement at all among its
occupants. At first he thought they were undecided as to which
course to pursue, but a few minutes more sufficed to show that
this was not the reason for their desultory advance. The canoe was
headed for the first channel. The solution came when a low but
clear whistle signaled over the water. Almost instantly there came
a responsive whistle from up the channel.

Philip drew a quick breath, and a new sensation brought his teeth
together in sudden perplexity. It looked as though he had a bigger
fight before him than he had anticipated.

At the signal from up-stream he heard the quick dip of paddles,
and the canoe cut swiftly toward him. He drew back the hammer of
Pierre's rule, and cleared a little space through the reeds and
grass so that his view into the channel was unobstructed. Three or
four well-directed shots, a quick dash out into the stream, and
he would possess Jeanne. This was his first thought. It was
followed by others, rapid as lightning, that restrained his
eagerness. The night-glow was treacherous to shoot by. What if he
should miss, or hit Jeanne--or in the sudden commotion and
destruction of his shots the canoe should be overturned? A single
error, the slightest mishap to himself, would mean the
annihilation of his hopes. Even if he succeeded in directing his
shots with accuracy, both himself and Jeanne would almost
immediately be under fire from those above.

He dropped back again behind the screen of reeds. The canoe drew
nearer. A moment more and it was almost abreast of him, and his
heart pounded like a swiftly beating hammer when he saw Jeanne in
the stern. She was leaning back as though unconscious. He could
see nothing of her face, but as the canoe passed within ten yards
of his hiding-place he saw the dark glow of her disheveled hair,
which fell thickly over the object against which she was resting.
It was but a moment's view, and they were gone. He had not looked
at the three men in the canoe. His whole being was centered upon
Jeanne. He had seen no sign of life--no movement in her body, not
the flutter of a hand, and all his fears leaped like brands of
burning fire into his brain. He thought of the inhuman plot which
Lord Fitzhugh's letter had revealed; in the same breath Pierre
Couchee's words rang in his ears--"It is death--worse than death
--for her--"

Was Jeanne the first victim of that diabolical scheme to awaken
the wrath of the northland? In the madness which possessed him now
Philip shoved out his canoe while there was still danger of
discovery. Fortunately none of the pursued glanced back, and a
turn in the channel soon hid them from view. Philip had recovered
his self-possession by the time he reached the turn. He assured
himself that Jeanne was unharmed as yet, and that when he saw her
she had probably fainted from excitement and terror. Her fate
still lay before her, somewhere in the deep and undisturbed
forests up the Churchill. His one hope was to remain undiscovered
and to rescue her at the last moment when she was taken ashore by
her captors.

He followed, close up against the reeds, never trusting himself
out of the shadows. After a little he heard voices, and a second
canoe appeared. There was a short pause, and the two canoes
continued side by side up the channel. A quarter of an hour
brought both the pursuers and the pursued into the main stream,
which lay in black gloom between forest walls that cut out all
light but the shimmer of the stars.

No longer could Philip see those ahead of him, but he guided
himself by occasional voices and the dip of paddles. At times,
when the stream narrowed and the forest walls gave him deeper
shelter, he drew perilously near with the hope of overhearing what
was said, but he caught only an occasional word or two. He
listened in vain for Jeanne's voice. Once he heard her name
spoken, and it was followed by a low laugh from some one in the
canoe that had waited at the mouth of the Churchill. A dozen times
during the first half-hour after they entered the main stream
Philip heard this same laughing voice.

After a time there fell a silence upon those ahead. No sound rose
above the steady dip of paddles, and the speed of the two canoes
increased. Suddenly, from far up the river, there came a voice,
faintly at first, but growing steadily louder, singing one of the
wild half-breed songs of the forest. The voice broke the silence
of those in the canoes. They ceased paddling, and Philip stopped.
He heard low words, and after a few moments the paddling was
resumed, and the canoes turned in toward the shore. Philip
followed their movement, dropping fifty yards farther down the
stream, and thrust big birch-bark alongside a thick balsam that
had fallen into the river.

The singing voice approached rapidly. Five minutes later a long
company canoe floated down out of the gloom. It passed so near
that Philip could see the picturesque figure in the stern paddling
and singing. In the bow kneeled an Indian working in stoic
silence. Between them, in the body of the canoe, sat two men whom
he knew at a glance were white men. The strangers and their craft
slipped by with the quickness of a shadow.

Again Philip heard movements above him, and once more he took up
the pursuit. He wondered why Jeanne had not called for help when
the company canoe passed. If she was not hurt or unconscious, her
captors had been forced to hold a handkerchief or a brutal hand
over her mouth, perhaps at her throat! His blood grew hot with
rage at the thought.

For three-quarters of an hour longer the swift paddling up-stream
continued without interruption. Then the river widened into a
small lake, and Philip was compelled to hold back until the two
canoes, which he could see clearly now, had passed over the
exposed area.

By the time he dared to follow, Jeanne's captors were a quarter of
a mile ahead of him. He no longer heard their paddles when he
entered the stream at the upper end of the lake, and he bent to
his work with greater energy and less caution. Five minutes--ten
minutes passed, and he saw nothing, heard nothing. His strokes
grew more powerful and the canoe shot through the water with the
swift cleavage of a knife. A perspiration began to gather on his
face, and a sudden chilling fear entered him. Another five minutes
and he stopped. The river swept out ahead of him, broad and clear,
for a quarter of a mile. There was no sign of the canoes!

For a few moments he remained motionless, drifting back with the
slow current of the stream, stunned by the thought that he had
allowed Jeanne's captors to escape him. Had they heard him and
dropped in to shore to let him pass? He swung his canoe about and
headed down-stream. In that case he could not miss them, if he
used caution. But if they had turned into some creek hidden in the
gloom--were even now picking their way through a secret channel
that led back from the river--

A groan burst from his lips as he thought of Jeanne. In that half
mile of river he could surely find where the canoes had gone, but
it might be too late. He went down in mid-stream, searching the
shadows of both shores. His heart sank like lead when he came to
the lake. There was but one thing to do now, and he ran his canoe
close along the right-hand shore, looking for an opening. His
progress was slow. A dozen times he entangled himself in masses of
reeds and rice, or thrust himself under over-hanging tree-tops
and vines to investigate the deeper gloom beyond. He had returned
two-thirds of the distance to the straight-water where he had
given up the pursuit when the bow of his canoe ran upon a smooth,
sandy bar that shelved out thirty or forty feet from the shore.
Scarcely had he felt the grate of sand when with a powerful shove
he sent his canoe back, and almost in the same instant Pierre's
rifle leveled menacingly shoreward. Drawn up high and dry on the
sand-bar were the two canoes.

For a space Philip expected that his appearance would be the
signal for some movement ashore; but as he drifted slowly away,
his rifle still leveled, he was filled more and more with the
belief that he had not been discovered. He allowed himself to
drift until he knew that he was hidden in the shadows, and then
quietly worked himself in to shore. Making no sound, he pulled
himself up the bank and crept among the trees toward the bar.
There was no one guarding the canoes. He heard no sound of voice,
no crackling of brush or movement of reeds. For a full minute he
crouched and listened. Then he crept nearer and found where both
reeds and brush were trampled down into a path that led away from
the river.

His heart gave a bound of joy, and he darted along the path,
holding his rifle ready for instant use. The trail wound through
the tall grass of a dry swamp meadow and, two hundred yards beyond
the river, plunged into a forest. He had barely entered this when
he saw the glow of a fire. It was only a short distance ahead,
hidden in a deep hollow that completely concealed its existence
from the keenest eyes that might pass along the river. Stealing
cautiously to the crest of the little knoll between him and the
light, Philip found himself within fifty feet of a camp.

A big canvas tent was the first thing to come within his vision.
The fire was built against this face of a rock in front of this,
and over the fire hovered a man dragging out beds of coals with a
forked stick. Almost at the same moment a second man appeared from
the tent, bearing two huge skillets in one hand and a big pot in
the other. At a glance Philip knew that they were preparing to
cook a meal, and that it was for many instead of two. Wildly he
searched the firelit spaces and the shadows for a sign of Jeanne.
He saw nothing. She was not in the camp. The five or six men who
had fled up the river with her were not there. His fingers dug
deep in the earth under him at the discovery, and once more
appalling fears overwhelmed him. Perhaps she had already met her
fate a little deeper in the forest.

He crept over the edge of the knoll and worked himself down
through the low bush on the opposite side, which would bring him
within a dozen feet of the man over the fire. There he would have
them at his mercy, and at the point of his revolver would compel
them to tell him where Jeanne had been taken. The advantage was
all in his favor. It would not be difficult to make them prisoners
and leave them secured while he followed after their companions.

He was intent only upon his plan, and did not take his eyes from
the men over the fire. He came to the end of the bush, and
crouched with head and shoulders exposed, his revolver in his
hand. Suddenly a sound close to the tent startled him. It was a
low cough. The men over the fire made no movement to look behind
them, but Philip turned.

In the shadow of a tree, which had concealed her until now, sat
Jeanne. She was tense and straight. Her white face was turned to
him. Her beautiful eyes glowed like stars. Her lips were parted;
he could see her quick, excited breathing. She saw him! She knew
him! He could see the joy of hope in her face and that she was
crushing back an impulse to cry out to him, even as he was
restraining his own mad desire to shout out his defiance and joy.
And there in the firelight, his face illumined, and oblivious for
the moment of the presence of the two men, Philip straightened
himself and held out his arms with a glad smile to Jeanne.

Hardly had he turned to the men, ready to spring out upon them,
when there came a terrific interruption. There was a sudden crash
in the brush behind him, a menacing snarl, and a huge wolfish
brute launched itself at his throat. The swift instinct of self-
preservation turned the weapon intended for the men over the fire
upon this unexpected assailant. The snarling fangs of the husky
were gleaming in his face and the animal's body was against the
muzzle of his revolver when Philip fired. Though he escaped the
fangs, he could not ward off the impact of the dog's body, and in
another moment he was sprawling upon his back in the light of the
camp. Before Philip could recover himself Jeanne's startled guards
were upon him. Flung back, he still possessed his pistol, and
pulled the trigger blindly. The report was muffled and sickening.
At the same moment a heavy blow fell upon his head, and a furious
weight crushed him back to the ground. He dropped his revolver.
His brain reeled; his muscles relaxed. He felt his assailant's
fingers at his throat, and their menace brought back every ounce
of fighting strength in his body. For a moment he lay still, his
eyes closed, the warm blood flowing over his face. He had worked
this game once before, years ago. He even thought of that time
now, as he lay upon his back. It had worked then, and it worked
now. The choking fingers at his throat loosened; the weight lifted
itself a little from his chest. The lone guard thought that he was
unconscious, and Jeanne, who had staggered to her feet, thought
that he was dead.

It was her cry, terrible, filled with agony and despair, that
urged him into action an instant too soon. His foe was still
partly on his guard, rising with a caution born of more than one
wilderness episode, when with a quick movement Philip closed with
him. Locked in a deadly grip, they rolled upon the ground; and,
with a feeling of despair which had never entered into his soul
before, the terrible truth came to Philip that the old strength
was gone from his arms and that with each added exertion he was
growing weaker. For a moment he saw Jeanne. She stood almost above
them, her hands clutched at her breast. And as he looked, she
suddenly turned and ran to the fire. An instant more and she was
back, a red-hot brand in her hand. Philip saw it flash close to
his eyes, felt the heat of it; and then a scream, animal-like in
its ferocity and pain, burst from the lips of his antagonist. The
man reeled backward, clutching at his thick neck, where Jeanne had
thrust the burning stick. Philip rose to his knees. His fist shot
out like lightning against the other's jaw, and the second guard
fell back in a limp heap.

Even as the blow fell, a loud shout came from close back in the
forest, followed by the crashing of many feet tearing through the
underbrush.





XI


Philip and Jeanne stood face to face in the firelight.

"Quick!" he cried. "We must hurry!"

He bent over to pick up his revolver from the ground. His movement
was followed by a low sob of pain. Jeanne was swaying as though
about to faint. She fell in a crumpled heap before he could reach
her side.

"You are hurt!" he exclaimed. "Jeanne! Jeanne!"

He was upon his knees beside her, crying out her name, half
holding her in his arms.

"No, no! I am not hurt--much," she replied, trying to recover
herself. "It is my ankle. I sprained it--on the cliff. Now--"

She became heavier against his arm. Her eyes were limpid with
pain.

Rising, Philip caught her in his arms. The crashing of brush was
within pistol-shot distance of them, but in that moment he felt no
fear. Life leaped back into his veins. He wanted to shout back his
defiance as he ran with Jeanne along the path to the river. He
could feel her pulsing against him. His lips were in her hair. Her
heart was beating wildly against his own. One of her arms was
about his shoulder, her hand against his neck. Life, love, the joy
of possession swept through him in burning floods, and it seemed
in these first moments of his contact with Jeanne, in the first
sound of her voice speaking to him, that the passionate language
of his soul must escape through his lips. For this moment he had
risked his life, had taken a hundred chances; he had anticipated,
and yet he had not dreamed beyond a hundredth part of what it
would mean for him. He looked down into the white face of the girl
as he ran. Her beautiful eyes were open to him. Her lips were
parted; her cheek lay against his breast. He did not realize how
close he was holding her until, at last, he stopped where he had
hidden the canoe. Then he felt her beating and throbbing against
him, as he had felt the quivering life of a frightened bird
imprisoned in his hands. She drew a deep breath when he opened his
arms, and lifted her head. Her loose hair swept over his breast
and hands.

He spoke no word as he placed her in the canoe. Not a whisper
passed between them as the canoe sped swiftly from the shore. A
hundred yards down the stream Philip headed straight across the
river and plunged into the shadows along the opposite bank.

Jeanne was close to him. He could hear her breathing. Suddenly he
felt the touch of her hand.

"M'sieur, I must ask--about Pierre!"

There was the thrill of fear in the low words. She leaned back,
her face a pale shadow in the deep gloom; and Philip bent over
until he felt her breath, and the sweetness of her hair filled his
nostrils. Quickly he whispered what had happened. He told her that
Pierre was hurt, but not badly, and that he had promised to take
her on to Fort o' God.

"It is up the Churchill?" he questioned.

"Yes," she whispered.

They heard voices now, and almost opposite them they saw shadowy
figures running out to the canoes upon the sand-bar.

"They will think that we are escaping toward Churchill," said
Philip, gloatingly. "It is the nearest refuge. See--"

One of the canoes was launched, and shot swiftly down the river. A
moment later the second followed. The dip of paddles died away,
and Philip laughed softly and joyously.

"They will hunt for us from now until morning between here and the
Bay. And then they will look for you again in Churchill."

Philip was conscious, almost without seeing, that Jeanne had bowed
her head in her arms and that she was giving way now to the
terrific strain which she had been under. Not until he heard a low
sob, which she strove hard to choke back in her throat, did he
dare to lean over again and touch her. Whatever was throbbing in
his heart, he knew that he must hide it now.

"You read the letter?" he asked, softly.

"Yes, M'sieur."

"Then you know--that you are safe with me!"

There was pride and strength, the ring of triumph in his voice. It
was the voice of a man thrilled by his own strength, by the warmth
of a great love, by the knowledge that he was the protector of a
creature dearer to him than all else on earth. The truth of it set
Jeanne quivering. She reached out until in the darkness her two
hands found one of Philip's, and for a moment she held his paddle
motionless in midair.

"Thank you, M'sieur," she whispered. "I trust you, as I would
trust Pierre."

All the words that women had ever spoken to him were as nothing to
those few that fell softly from Jeanne's lips; in the clinging
pressure of her fingers as she uttered them were the concentrated
joys of all that he had dreamed of in the touch of women. He knelt
silent, motionless, until her hands left his own.

"I am to take you to Fort o' God," he said, fighting to keep the
tremble of joy out of his voice. "And you--you must guide me."

"It is far up the Churchill," she replied, understanding the
question he intended. "It is two hundred miles from the Bay."

He put his strength into his paddle for ten minutes, and then ran
the canoe into shore fully half a mile above the sand-bar. He
stepped out into water up to his knees.

"We must risk a little time here to attend to your injured ankle,"
he explained. "Then you can arrange yourself comfortably among
these robes in the bow. Shall I carry you?"

"You can--help," said Jeanne. She gave him her hand and made an
effort to rise. Instantly she sank back with a sob of pain.

It was strange that her pain should fill him with a wonderful joy.
He knew that she was suffering, that she could not walk or stand
alone. And yet, back at the camp, she had risen in her torture and
had come to his rescue. She could not bear her own weight now, but
then she had run to him and had fought for him. The knowledge that
she had done this, and for him, filled him with an exquisite
sensation.

"I must carry you," he said, speaking to her with the calm
decision that he might have voiced to a little child. His tone
reassured her, and she made no remonstrance when he lifted her in
his arms. For a brief moment she lay against him again, and when
he lowered her upon the bank his hand accidentally touched the
soft warmth of her face.

"My specialty is sprains," he said, speaking a little lightly to
raise her spirits for the instant's ordeal through which she must
pass. "I have doctored half a dozen during the last three months.
You must take off your moccasin and your stocking, and I will make
a bandage."

He drew a big handkerchief from his pocket and dipped it in the
water. Then he searched along the shore for a dozen paces, until
he found an Indian willow. With his knife he scraped off a handful
of bark, soaked it in water, crushed it between his hands, and
returned to her. Jeanne's little foot lay naked in the starlight.

"It will hurt just a moment," he said, gently. "But it is the only
cure. To-morrow it will be strong enough for you to stand upon.
Can you bear a little hurt?"

He knelt before her and looked up, scarce daring to touch her foot
before she spoke.

"I may cry," she said.

Her voice fluttered, but it gave him permission. He folded the wet
handkerchief in the form of a bandage, with the willow bark spread
over it. Then, very gently, he seized her foot in one hand and her
ankle in the other.

"It will hurt just a little," he soothed. "Only a moment."

His fingers tightened. He put into them the whole strength of his
grip, pulling downward on the foot and upward on the ankle until,
with a low cry, Jeanne flung her hands over his.

"There, it is done," he laughed, nervously. He wrapped the bandage
around so tightly that Jeanne could not move her foot, and tied it
with strips of cloth. Then he turned to the canoe while she drew
on her stocking and moccasin.

He was trembling. A maddening joy pounded in his brain. Jeanne's
voice came to him sweetly, with a shyness in it that made him feel
like a boy. He was glad that the night concealed his face. He
would have given worlds to have seen Jeanne's.

"I am ready," she said.

He carried her to the bow of the canoe and fixed her among the
robes, arranging a place for her head so that she might sleep if
she wished. For the first time the light was so that he could see
her plainly as she nestled back in the place made for her. Their
eyes met for a moment.

"You must sleep," he urged. "I shall paddle all night."

"You are sure that Pierre is not badly hurt?" she asked,
tremulously. "You--you would not--keep the truth from me?"

"He was not more than stunned," assured Philip. "It is impossible
that his wound should prove serious. Only there was no time to
lose, and I came without him. He will follow us soon."

He took his position in the stern, and Jeanne lay back among the
bearskins. For a long time after that Philip paddled in silence.
He had hoped that Jeanne would give him an opportunity to continue
their conversation, in spite of his advice to her to secure what
rest she could. But there came no promise from the bow of the
canoe. After half an hour he guessed that Jeanne had taken him at
his word, and was asleep.

It was disappointing, and yet there came a pleasurable throb with
his disappointment. Jeanne trusted him. She was sleeping under his
protection as sweetly as a child. Fear of her enemies no longer
kept her awake or filled her with terror. This night, under these
stars, with the wilderness all about them, she had given herself
into his keeping. His cheeks burned. He dipped his paddle
noiselessly, so that he might not interrupt her slumber. Each
moment added to the fullness of his joy, and he wished that he
might only see her face, hidden in the darkness of her hair and
the bear-robes.

The silence no longer seemed a silence to him. It was filled with
the beating of his heart, the singing of his love, a gentle sigh
now and then that came like a deeper breath between Jeanne's sweet
lips. It was a silence that pulsated with a voiceless and
intoxicating life for him, and he was happy. In these moments,
when even their voices were stilled, Jeanne belonged to him, and
to him alone. He could feel the warmth of her presence. He felt
still the thrill of her breast against his own, the touch of her
hair upon his lips, the gentle clinging of her arms. The spirit of
her moved, and sat awake, and talked with him, just as the old
spirit of his dreams had communed with him a thousand times in his
loneliness. Dreams were at an end. Now had come reality.

He looked up into the sky. The moon had dropped below the
southwestern forests, and there were only the stars above him,
filling a gray-blue vault in which there was not even the
lingering mist of a cloud. It was a beautifully clear night, and
he wondered how the light fell so that it did not reveal Jeanne in
her nest. The thought that came to him then set his heart tingling
and made his face radiant. Even the stars were guarding Jeanne,
and refused to disclose the mystery of her slumber. He laughed
within himself. His being throbbed, and suddenly a voice seemed to
cry softly, trembling in its joy:

"Jeanne! Jeanne! My beloved Jeanne!"

With horror Philip caught himself too late. He had spoken the
words aloud. For an instant reality had transformed itself into
the old dream, and his dream-spirit had called to its mate for the
first time in words. Appalled at what he had said, Philip bent
over and listened. He heard Jeanne's breathing. It was deeper than
before. She was surely asleep!

He straightened himself and resumed his paddling. He was glad now
that he had spoken. Jeanne seemed nearer to him after those words.

Before this night he never realized how beautiful the wilderness
was, how complete it could be. It had offered him visions of new
life, but these visions had never quite shut out the memories of
old pain. He watched and listened. The water rippled behind his
canoe; it trickled in a soothing cadence after each dip of his
paddle; he heard the gentle murmur of it among the reeds and
grasses, and now and then the gurgling laughter of it, like the
faintest tinkling of dainty bells. He had never understood it
before; he had never joined in its happiness. The night sounds
came to him with a different meaning, filled him with different
sensations. As he slipped quietly around a bend in the river he
heard a splashing ahead of him, and knew that a moose was feeding,
belly-deep, in the water. At other times the sound would have set
his fingers itching for a rifle, but now it was a part of the
music of the night. Later he heard the crashing of a heavy body
along the shore and in the distance the lonely howl of a wolf. He
listened to the sounds with a quiet pleasure instead of creeping
thrills which they once sent through him. Every sound spoke of
Jeanne--of Jeanne and her world, into which each stroke of his
paddle carried them a little deeper.

And yet the truth could not but come to him that Jeanne was but a
stranger. She was a creature of mystery, as she lay there asleep
in the bow of the canoe; he loved her, and yet he did not know
her. He confessed to himself, as the night lengthened, that he
would be glad when morning came. Jeanne would clear up a half of
his perplexities then, perhaps all of them. He would at least
learn more about herself and the reason for the attack at Fort
Churchill.

He paddled for another hour, and then looked at his watch by the
light of a match. It was three o'clock.

Jeanne had not moved, but as the match burned out between his
fingers she startled him by speaking.

"Is it nearly morning, M'sieur?"

"An hour until dawn," said Philip. "You have been sleeping a long
time--" Her name was on his lips, but he found it a little more
difficult to speak now. And yet there was a gentleness in Jeanne's
"M'SIEUR" which encouraged him. "Are you getting hungry?" he
asked.

"Pierre and my father always ask me that when THEY are starving,"
replied Jeanne, sitting erect in her nest so that Philip saw her
face and the shimmer of her hair. "There is everything to eat in
the pack, M'sieur Philip, even to a bottle of olives."

"Good!" cried Philip, delighted, "But won't you please cut out
that 'm'sieur?' My greatest weakness is a desire to be called by
my first name. Will you?"

"If it pleases you," said Jeanne. "There is everything there to
eat, and I will make you a cup of coffee, M'sieur--"

"What?"

"Philip."

There was a ripple of laughter in the girl's voice. Philip fairly
trembled.

"You were prepared for this journey," he said. "You were going to
leave after you saw me on the rock. I have been wondering why--why
you took enough interest in me--"

He knew that he was blundering, and in the darkness his face
turned red. Jeanne's tact was delightful.

"We were curious about you," she said, with bewitching candor.
"Pierre is the most inquisitive creature in the world, and I
wanted to thank you for returning my handkerchief. I'm sorry you
didn't find a bit of lace which I lost at the same time!"

"I did!" exclaimed Philip.

He bit his tongue, and cursed himself at this fresh break. Jeanne
was silent. After a moment she said:

"Shall I make you some coffee?"

"Will you be able to do it? Your foot--"

"I had forgotten that," she said. "It doesn't hurt any more. But I
can show you how."

Her unaffected ingenuousness, the sweetness of her voice, the
simplicity and ease of her manner delighted Philip, and at the
same time filled him with amazement. He had never met a forest
girl like Jeanne. Her beauty, her queen-like bearing, when she had
stood with Pierre on the rock, had puzzled him and filled him with
admiration. But now her voice, the music of her words, her
quickness of perception added tenfold to those impressions. It
might have been Miss Brokaw who was sitting there in the bow
talking to him, only Jeanne's voice was sweeter than Miss
Brokaw's; and even in the lightest of the words she had spoken
there was a tone of sincerity and truth. It flashed upon Philip
that Jeanne might have stepped from a convent school, where gentle
voices had taught her and language was formed in the ripe fullness
of music. In a moment he believed that something like this had
happened.

"We will go ashore," he said, searching for an open space. "This
must be tedious to you, if you are not accustomed to it."

"Accustomed to it, M'sieur--Philip!" exclaimed Jeanne, catching
herself. "I was born here!"

"In the wilderness?"

"At Fort o' God."

"You have not always lived there?"

For a brief space Jeanne was silent.

"Yes, always, M'sieur. I am eighteen years old, and this is the
first time that I have ever seen what you people call
civilization. It is my first visit to Fort Churchill. It is the
first time I have ever been away from Fort o' God."

Jeanne's voice was low and subdued. It rang with truth. In it
there was something that was almost tragedy. For a breath or two
Philip's heart seemed to stop its beating, and he leaned far over,
looking straight and questioningly into the beautiful face that
met his own. In that moment the world had opened and engulfed him
in a wonder which at first his mind could not comprehend.





XII


The canoe ran among the reeds, with its bow to the shore. Philip's
astonishment still held him motionless.

"A little while ago you asked me if I would tell you anything but
--but--the truth," he stammered, trying to find words to express
himself, "and this--"

"Is the truth," interrupted Jeanne, a little coolly. "Why should I
tell you an untruth, M'sieur?"

Philip had asked himself that same question shortly after their
first meeting on the cliff. And now in the girl's question there
was sounded a warning for him to be more discreet.

"I did not mean that," he cried, quickly. "Please forgive me.
Only--it is so wonderful, so almost IMPOSSIBLE to believe. Do you
know what I thought of for three-quarters of the night after I
left you and Pierre on the rock? It was of years--centuries ago. I
put you and Pierre back there. It seemed as though you had come to
me from out of another world, that you had strayed from the
chivalry and beauty of some royal court, that a queen's painter
might have known and made a picture of you, as I saw you there,
but that to me you were only the vision of a dream. And now you
say that you have always lived here!"

He saw Jeanne's eyes glowing. She had lifted herself from among
the bearskins and was leaning toward him. Her face was quivering
with emotion; her whole being seemed concentrated on his words.

"M'sieur--Philip--did we seem--like that?" she asked, tremulously.

"Yes, or I would not have written the letter," replied Philip. He
leaned forward over the pack, and his face was close to Jeanne's.
"I had just passed over the place where men and women of a century
or two ago were buried, and when I saw you and Pierre I thought of
them; of Mademoiselle D'Arcon, who left a prince to follow her
lover to a grave back there at Churchill, and I wondered if
Grosellier--"

"Grosellier!" cried the girl.

She was breathing quickly, excitedly. Suddenly she drew back with
a little, nervous laugh.

"I am glad you thought of us like THAT," she added. "It was
Grosellier, le grand chevalier, who first lived at Fort o' God!"

Philip could no longer restrain himself. He forgot that the canoe
was lying motionless among the reeds and that they were to go
ashore. In a voice that trembled with his eagerness to be
understood, to win her confidence, he told her fully of what had
happened that night on the cliff. He repeated Pierre's
instructions to him, described his terrible fear for her, and in
it all withheld but one thing--the name of Lord Fitzhugh Lee.
Jeanne listened to him without a word. She sat as erect as one of
the slender reeds among which the canoe was hidden. Her dark eyes
never left his face. They seemed to have grown darker when he
finished.

"May the great God reward you for what you have done," she said,
in a low voice, quivering with a suppressed passion. "You are
brave, M'sieur Philip--as brave as I have dreamed of men being."

Philip's heart throbbed with delight, and yet he said quickly:

"It isn't THAT. I have done nothing--nothing more than Pierre
would have done for me. But don't you understand? If there is to
be a reward for the little I have given--I could ask for nothing
greater than your confidence and Pierre's. There are reasons, and
perhaps if I told you those you would understand."

"I do understand, without further explanation," answered Jeanne,
in the same low, strained voice. "You fought for Pierre on the
cliff, and you have saved--me. We owe you everything, even our
lives. I understand, M'sieur Philip," she said, more softly,
leaning still nearer to him; "but I can tell you nothing."

"You prefer to leave that to Pierre," he said a little hurt. "I
beg your pardon."

"No, no! I don't mean that!" she cried, quickly. "You
misunderstand me. I mean that you know as much of this whole
affair as I do, that you know what I know, and perhaps more."

The emotion which she had suppressed burst forth now in a choking
sob. She recovered herself in an instant, her eyes still upon
Philip.

"It was only a whim of mine that took us to Churchill," she went
on, before he could find words to say. "It is Pierre's secret why
we lived in our own camp and went down into Churchill but once--
when the ship came in. I do not know the reason for the attack. I
can only guess--"

"And your guess--"

Jeanne drew back. For a moment she did not speak. Then she said,
without a note of harshness in her voice, but with the finality of
a queen:

"Father may tell you that when we reach Fort o' God!"

And then she suddenly leaned toward him again and held out both
her hands.

"If you only could know how I thank you!" she exclaimed,
impulsively.

For a moment Philip held her hands. He felt them trembling. In
Jeanne's eyes he saw the glisten of tears.

"Circumstances have come about so strangely," he said, his heart
palpitating at the warm pressure of her fingers, "that I half
believed you and Pierre could help me in--in an affair of my own.
I would give a great deal to find a certain person, and after the
attack on the cliff, and what Pierre said, I thought--"

He hesitated, and Jeanne gently drew her hands from him.

"I thought that you might know him," he finished. "His name is
Lord Fitzhugh Lee."

Jeanne gave no sign that she had heard the name before. The
question in her eyes remained unchanged.

"We have never heard of him at Fort o' God," she said.

Philip shoved the canoe more firmly upon the shore and stepped
over the side.

"This Fort o' God must be a wonderful place," he said, as he bent
over to help her. "You have aroused something in me I never
thought I possessed before--a tremendous curiosity."

"It is a wonderful place, M'sieur Philip," replied the girl,
holding up her hands to him. "But why should you guess it?"

"Because of you," laughed Philip. "I am half convinced that you
take a wicked delight in bewildering me."

He found Jeanne a comfortable spot on the bank, brought her one of
the bearskins, and began collecting a pile of dry reeds and wood.

"I am sure of it," he went on. He struck a match, and the reeds
flared into flame, lighting up his face,

Jeanne gave a startled cry.

"You are hurt!" she exclaimed. "Your face is red with blood."

Philip jumped back.

"I had forgotten that. I'll wash my face."

He waded into the edge of the water and began scrubbing himself.
When he returned, Jeanne looked at him closely. The fire illumined
her pale face. She had gathered her beautiful hair in a thick
braid, which fell over her shoulder. She appeared lovelier to him
now than when he had first seen her in the night-glow on the
cliff. She was dressed the same. He observed that the filmy bit of
lace about her slender throat was torn, and that one side of her
short buckskin skirt was covered with half-dried splashes of mud.
His blood rose at these signs of the rough treatment of those who
had attacked her. It reached fever-heat when, coming nearer, he
saw a livid bruise on her forehead close up under her hair.

"They struck you?" he demanded.

He stood with his hands clenched. She smiled up at him.

"It was my fault," she explained. "I'm afraid I gave them a good
deal of trouble on the cliff."

She laughed outright at the fierceness in Philip's face, and so
sweet was the sound of it to him that his hands relaxed and he
laughed with her.

"So help me, you're a brick!" he cried.

"There are pots and kettles and coffee and things to eat in the
pack, M'sieur Philip," reminded Jeanne, softly, as he still
remained staring down upon her.

Philip turned to the canoe, with a laugh that was like a boy's. He
threw the pack at Jeanne's feet and unstrapped it. Together they
sorted out the things they wanted, and Philip cut crotched sticks
on which he suspended two pots of water over the fire. He found
himself whistling as he gathered an armful of wood along the
shore. When he came back Jeanne had opened a bottle of olives and
was nibbling at one, while she held out another to him on the end
of a fork.

"I love olives," she said. "Won't you have one?"

He accepted the thing, and ate it joyously, though he hated
olives.

"Where did you acquire the taste?" he asked. "I thought it took a
course at college to make one like 'em."

"I've been to college," answered Jeanne, quietly. There was a glow
in her cheeks now, a swift flash of tantalizing fun in her eyes,
as she fished after another olive. "I have been a student--a
TENERIS ANNIS," she added, and he stood stupefied.

"That's Latin!" he gasped.

"Oui, M'sieur. Wollen Sie noch eine Olive haben?"

Laughter rippled in her throat. She held out another olive to him,
her face aglow. Firelight danced in her hair, flooding its darker
shadows with lights of red and gold.

"I was sure of it," he exclaimed, convinced. "That's post-graduate
Latin and senior German, or I'm as mad as a March hare! Where--
where did you go to school?"

"At Fort o' God. Quick, M'sieur Philip, the water is boiling
over!"

Philip sprang to the fire. Jeanne handed him coffee, and set out
cold meat and bread. For the first time that night he pulled out
his pipe and filled it with tobacco.

"You don't mind if I smoke, do you, Miss Jeanne?" he groaned.
"Under some circumstances tobacco is the only thing that will hold
me up. Do you know that you are shaking my confidence in you?"

"I have told you nothing but the truth," retorted Jeanne,
innocently. She was still busying herself over the pack, but
Philip caught the slightest gleam of her laughing teeth.

"You are making fun of me," he remonstrated. "Tell me--where is
this Fort o' God, and what is it?"

"It is far up the Churchill, M'sieur Philip. It is a log chateau,
built hundreds and hundreds of years ago, I guess. My father,
Pierre, and I, with one other, live there alone among the savages.
I have never been so far away from home before."

"I suppose," said Philip, "that the savages up your way converse
in Latin, Greek, and German--"

"Latin, FRENCH, and German," corrected Jeanne. "We haven't added a
Greek course yet."

"I know of a girl," mused Philip, as though speaking to himself,
"who spent five years in a girls' college, and she can talk
nothing but light English. Her name is Eileen Brokaw."

Jeanne looked up, but only to point to the coffee.

"It is done," she advised, "unless you like it bitter."





XIII


Philip knew that Jeanne was watching him as he lifted the coffee
from the fire and placed the pot on the ground to cool. His mind
was in a hopeless tangle--a riot of things he would like to say,
throbbing with a hundred questions he would like to ask, one after
another. And yet Jeanne seemed bewitchingly unconscious of his
uneasiness. Not one of his references to names and events so vital
to himself had in any way produced a change in her. Was she, after
all, innocent of all knowledge in the things he wished to know?
Was it possible that she was entirely ignorant as to the identity
of the men who had attacked Pierre and herself on the cliff? Was
it true that she did not know Eileen Brokaw, that she had never
heard of Lord Fitzhugh Lee, and that she had always lived among
the wild people of the north? By what miracle performed here in
the heart of a savage world could this girl talk to him in German
and Latin? Was she making fun of him? He turned to look at her and
found her dark, clear eyes upon him. She smiled at him in a tired
little way, and he saw nothing but sweetness and truth in her
face. In an instant every suspicion was swept away. He felt like a
criminal for having doubted her; and for a moment he was on the
point of confessing to her what had been in his thoughts. He
restrained himself, and went to the river to wash the pot-black
from his hands. Jeanne was a mystery to him, a mystery that
delighted him and filled him each moment with a deeper love. He
saw the life and freedom of the forests in her every movement--in
the gesture of her hands, the bird-like poise of her pretty head,
the lithe grace of her slender body. She breathed the forests. It
glowed in her eyes, in the rich red of her lips, and revealed its
beauty and strength in the unconfined wealth of her gold-brown
hair. In a dozen ways he could see her primitiveness, her kinship
to the wilderness. She had told him the truth. Her eyes smiled
truth at him as he came up the bank. No other woman's eyes had
ever looked at him like hers; none had he seen so beautiful. And
yet in them he saw nothing that she would not have expressed in
words--companionship, trust, thankfulness that he was there to
care for her. Such eyes as those belonged only to the wilderness,
brimming with the flawless beauty of an undefiled nature. He had
seen them, but not so beautiful, in Cree women. He thought of
Eileen Brokaw's eyes as he looked at Jeanne's. They were very
beautiful, but they were DIFFERENT. Jeanne's could not lie.

On a white napkin Jeanne had spread out cold meat, bread, pickles,
and cheese, and Philip brought her the coffee. He noticed that she
was resting a little of her weight upon her injured ankle.

"Better?" he asked, indicating the bandaged ankle with a nod of
his head.

"Much," replied Jeanne, as tersely. "I'm going to try standing
upon it in a few minutes. But not now. I'm starved."

She gave him his coffee and began eating with a relish that made
him want to sit back and watch her. Instead, he joined her; and
they ate like two hungry children. It was when she turned him out
a second cup of coffee that Philip noticed her hand tremble a
little.

"If Pierre was here we would be quite happy, M'sieur Philip," she
said, uneasily. "I can't understand why he asked you to run away
with me to Fort o' God. If he is not badly hurt, as you have told
me, why do we not hide and wait for him? He would overtake us
to-morrow."

"There--there was no time to talk over plans," answered Philip,
inwardly embarrassed for a moment by the unexpectedness of
Jeanne's question. A vision of Pierre, bleeding and unconscious on
the cliff, leaped into his mind, and the thought that he had lied
to Jeanne and must still make her believe what was half false
sickened him. There was, after all, a chance that Pierre would
never again come up the Churchill. "Perhaps Pierre thought we
would be hotly pursued," he went on, seeing no escape from the
demand in the girl's eyes. "In that event it would be best for me
to get you to Fort o' God as quickly as possible. You must
remember that Pierre was thinking of you. He can care for himself.
It may take him two or three days to get back the strength of--of
his arm," he finished, blindly.

"He was wounded in the arm?"

"And on the head," said Philip. "It was only a scalp wound,
however--nothing at all, except that it dazed him a little at the
time."

Jeanne pointed to the reflection of the fire on the river.

"If we should be pursued?" she suggested.

"There is no danger," assured Philip, though he had left the flap
of his revolver holster unbuttoned. "They will search for us
between their camp and Churchill."

"Citius venit periculum cum contemnitur," remonstrated Jeanne,
half smiling.

She was pale, but Philip saw that she was making a tremendous
effort to appear brave and cheerful.

"Perhaps you are right," laughed Philip, "but I swear that I don't
know what you mean. I suppose you picked that lingo up among the
Indians."

He caught the faintest gleam of Jeanne's white teeth again as she
bent her head.

"I have a tutor at home," she explained, softly. "You shall meet
him when we reach Fort o' God. He is the most wonderful man in the
world."

Her words sent a strange chill through Philip. They were filled
with an exquisite tenderness, a pride that sent her eyes back to
his, glowing. The questions that he had meant to ask died and
faded away. He thought of her words of a few minutes before, when
he had asked about Fort o' God. She had said, "My father, Pierre,
and I, WITH ONE OTHER, live there alone." The OTHER was the tutor,
the man who had come from civilization to teach this beautiful
girl those things which had amazed him, and this man was THE MOST
WONDERFUL MAN IN THE WORLD. He had no excuse for the feelings
which were aroused in him. Only he knew, as he rose to his feet,
that a part of his old burden seemed suddenly to have returned to
his shoulders, and the old loneliness was beating at the door of
his heart. He rearranged the pack in silence, and the strength and
joy of life were gone from his arms when he helped Jeanne back to
her place among the bear-skins. He did not notice that her eyes
were watching him curiously, or that her lips trembled once or
twice, as if about to speak words which never came. Jeanne, as
well as he, seemed to have discovered something which neither
dared to reveal in that last five minutes on the shore.

"There is one thing that I must know," said Philip, when they were
about to start, "and that is where to find Fort o' God? Is it on
the Churchill?"

"It is on the Little Churchill, M'sieur, near Waskiaowaka Lake."

Darkness concealed the effect of her words upon Philip. For a
moment he stared like one struck dumb. He stifled the exclamation
that rose to his lips. He felt himself trembling. He knew that if
he spoke his voice would betray him.

NEAR WASKIAOWAKA LAKE! And Waskiaowaka was within thirty miles of
his own camp on the Blind Indian! If a bomb had burst under his
feet he could not have been more amazed than at this information,
given to him in Jeanne's quiet voice. Fort o' God--within thirty
miles of the scene where very soon he was to fight the great
battle of his life! He dug his paddle into the water and sent the
canoe hissing up the river. His blood pounded like that of a
racehorse on the home-stretch. Of all the things that had
happened, of all he had learned, this was the most significant.
Every thought ran like a separate powder-flash to a single idea,
to one great, overpowering question. Were Fort o' God and its
people the key to the plot against himself and his company? Was it
the rendezvous of those who were striving to work his ruin? Doubt,
suspicion, almost belief came to him in those few moments, in
spite of himself.

He looked at Jeanne. The gray dawn was breaking, and now light
followed swiftly and dissolved the last mist. In the chill of
early morning, when with the approach of the sun a cold,
uncomfortable sweat rises heavily from the earth and water, Jeanne
had drawn one of the bearskins closely about her. Her head was
bare. Her hair, glistening with damp, clung in heavy masses about
her face. There was a bewitching childishness about her, a
pathetic appeal to him in the forlorn little picture she made--so
helpless, and yet so confident in him. Every energy in him leaped
up in defiance of the revolution which for a few moments had
stirred within him. And Jeanne, as though she had read the working
of his mind, looked straight at him and smiled, with a little
purring note in her throat that took the place of a thousand
words. It was such a smile, and yet not one of love, which puts
the strength of ten men in one man's arms; and Philip laughed back
at her, every chord in his body responding in joyous vibration to
the delicate note that had come with it. No matter what events
might find their birth at Fort o' God, Jeanne was innocent of all
knowledge of plot or wrong-doing. Once for all Philip convinced
himself of this.

The thought that came to him, as he looked at Jeanne, found voice
through his lips.

"Do you know," he said, "if I never saw you again I would always
have three pictures of you in my memory. I would never forget how
you looked when I first saw you on the cliff--or as I see you now,
wrapped in your bearskins. Only--I would think of you--as you
smiled."

"And the third picture?" questioned Jeanne, little guessing what
was in his mind. "Would that be at the fire, when I burned the bad
man's neck--or--or when--"

She stopped herself, and pouted her mouth in sudden vexation,
while a flush which Philip could easily see rose in her cheeks.

"When I doctored your foot?" he finished, rather unchivalrously,
chuckling in his delight at her pretty discomfiture. "No, that
wouldn't be the third, Miss Jeanne. The other scene which I shall
never forget was that on the stone pier at Churchill, when you met
a beautiful girl who was coming off the ship."

The blood leaped to Jeanne's face. Her soft lips tightened. A
sudden movement, and the bearskin slipped from her shoulders,
leaving her leaning a little forward, her eyes blazing. A dozen
words had transformed her from the child he had fancied her to a
woman quivering with some powerful emotion, her beautiful head
proud and erect, her nostrils dilating with the quickness of her
breath.

"That was a mistake," she said. There was no sign of passion in
her voice. It trembled a little, but that was all. "It was a
mistake, M'sieur Philip. I thought that I knew her, and--and I
was wrong. You--you must not remember THAT!"

"I am no better than a wild beast," groaned Philip, hating
himself. "I'm the biggest idiot in the world when it comes to
saying the wrong thing, I never miss a chance. I didn't mean to
say anything--that would hurt--"

"You haven't," interrupted the girl, quickly, seeing the distress
in his face. "You haven't said a thing that's wrong. Only I don't
want you to remember THAT picture. I want you to think of me as--
as--I burned the bad man's neck."

She was laughing now, though her breast was rising and falling a
little excitedly and the deep color was still in her cheeks.

"Will you?" she entreated.

"Until I die," he exclaimed.

She was fumbling under the luggage, and dragged forth a second
paddle.

"I've had an easy time with you, M'sieur Philip," she said,
turning so that she was kneeling with her back to him. "Pierre
makes me work. Always I kneel here, in the bow, and paddle. I am
ashamed of myself. You have worked all night."

"And I feel as fresh as though I had slept for a week," declared
Philip, his eyes devouring the slim figure a paddle's length in
front of him.

For an hour they continued up the river, with scarcely a word
between them to break the silence. Their paddles rose and fell
with a rhythmic motion; the water rippled like low music under
their canoe; the spell of the silent shores, of voiceless beauty,
of the wilderness awakening into day appealed to them both and
held them quiet. The sun broke faintly through the drawn mists
behind. Its first rays lighted up Jeanne's rumpled hair, so that
her heavy braid, partly undone and falling upon the luggage behind
her, shone in rich and changing colors that fascinated Philip. He
had thought that Jeanne's hair was very dark, but he saw now that
it was filled with the rare life of a Titian head, running from
red to gold and dark brown, with changing shadows and flashes of
light. It was beautiful. And Jeanne, as he looked at her, he
thought to be the most beautiful thing on earth. The movement of
her arms, the graceful, sinuous twists of her slender body as she
put her strength upon the paddle, the poise of her head, the
piquant tilt to her chin whenever she turned so that he caught a
half profile of her flushed, eager face all filled his cup of
admiration to overflowing. And he found himself wondering,
suddenly, how this girl could be a sister to Pierre Couchee. He
saw in her no sign of French or half-breed blood. Her hair was
fine and soft, and waved about her ears and where it fell loose
upon the back. The color in her cheeks was as delicate as the
tints of the bakneesh flower. She had rolled up her broad cuffs to
give her greater freedom in paddling, and her arms shone white and
firm, glistening with the wet drip of the paddle. He was marveling
at her relationship to Pierre when she looked back at him, her
face aglow with exercise and the spice of the morning, and he saw
the sunlight as blue as the sky above him in her eyes. If he had
not known, he would have sworn that there was not a drop of
Pierre's blood in her veins.

"We are coming to the first rapids, M'sieur Philip," she
announced. "It is just beyond that ugly mountain of rock ahead of
us, and we will have a quarter-mile portage. It is filled with
great stones and so swift that Pierre and I nearly wrecked
ourselves coming down."

It was the most that had been said since the beginning of that
wonderful hour that had come before the first gleam of sunrise,
and Philip, laying his paddle athwart the canoe, stretched himself
and yawned, as though he had just awakened.

"Poor boy," said Jeanne; and it struck him that her words were
strangely like those which Eileen might have spoken had she been
there, only an artless comradeship replaced what would have been
Miss Brokaw's tone of intimacy. She added, with genuine sympathy
in her face and voice: "You must be exhausted, M'sieur Philip. If
you were Pierre I should insist upon going ashore for a number of
hours. Pierre obeys me when we are together. He calls me his
captain. Won't you let me command you?"

"If you will let me call you--my captain," replied Philip. "Only
there is one thing--one reservation. We must go on. Command me in
everything else, but we must go on--for a time. To-night I will
sleep. I will sleep like the dead. So, My Captain," he laughed,
"may I have your permission to work to-day?"

Jeanne was turning the bow shoreward. Her back was turned to him
again.

"You have no pity on me," she pouted. "Pierre would be good to me,
and we would fish all day in that pretty pool over there. I'll bet
it's full of trout."

Her words, her manner of speaking them, was a new revelation to
Philip. She was delightful. He laughed, and his voice rang out in
the clear morning like a school-boy's. Jeanne pretended that she
saw nothing to laugh at, and no sooner had the canoe touched shore
than she sprang lightly out, not waiting for his assistance. With
a laughing cry, she stumbled and fell. Philip was at her side in
an instant.

"You shouldn't have done that," he objected. "I am your doctor,
and I insist that your foot is not well."

"But it is!" cried Jeanne, and he saw that there was laughter
instead of pain in her eyes. "It's the bandage. My right foot
feels like that of a Chinese debutante. Ugh! I'm going to undo
it."

"You've been to China, too," mused Philip, half to himself.

"I know that it's filled with yellow girls, and that they squeeze
their feet like this," said Jeanne, unlacing her moccasin. "My
tutor and I have just finished a delightful trip along the Great
Wall. We'd go to Peking, in an automobile, if I wasn't afraid."

Philip's groan was audible. He went to the canoe, and Jeanne's red
lips curled in a merriment which it was hard for her too suppress.
Philip did not see. When he had unloaded the canoe and turned,
Jeanne was walking slowly back and forth, limping a little.

"It's all right," she said, answering the question on his lips. "I
don't feel any pain at all, but my foot's asleep. Won't you please
unstrap the small pack? I'm going to make my toilet while you are
gone with the canoe."

Half an hour later Philip unshouldered the canoe at the upper end
of the rapids. His own toilet articles were back in the cabin with
Gregson, but he took a wash in the river and combed his hair with
his fingers. When he returned, there was a transformation in
Jeanne. Her beautiful hair was done up in shining coils. She had
changed her bedraggled skirt for another of soft, yellow buckskin.
At her throat she wore a fluffy mass of crimson stuff which seemed
to reflect a richer rose-flush in her cheeks. A curious thought
came to Philip as he looked at her. Like a flash the memory of a
certain night came to him--when it had taken Miss Brokaw and her
maid two hours to make a toilet for a ball. And Jeanne, in the
heart of a wilderness, had made herself more beautiful than
Eileen. He imagined, as she stood before him, a little embarrassed
by the admiration in his eyes, the sensation Jeanne would create
in a ballroom at home. And then he laughed--laughed joyously at
thoughts which he could not reveal to Jeanne, and which she, by
some quick intuition, knew that she should not ask him to express.

Twice again Philip made the portage, accompanied the second time
by Jeanne, who insisted on carrying a small pack and two paddles.
In spite of his determination and splendid physique, Philip began
to feel the effects of the tremendous strain which he had been
under for so long. He counted back and found that he had slept but
six hours in the last forty-eight. There was a warning ache in his
shoulders and a gnawing pain in the bones of his forearms. But he
knew that he had not yet made sufficient headway up the Churchill.
It would not be difficult for him to make a camp far enough back
in the bush to avoid discovery; but, at the same time, if he and
Jeanne were pursued, the stop would give their enemies a chance to
get ahead of them. This danger he wished to escape.

He flattered himself that Jeanne saw no signs of his weakening. He
did not know that Jeanne put more and more effort into her paddle,
until her arms and body ached, because she saw the truth.

The Churchill narrowed and its current became swifter as they
progressed. Five portages were made between sunrise and eleven
o'clock. They ate dinner at the fifth, and rested for two hours.
Then the journey was resumed. It was three o'clock when Jeanne
dropped her paddle and turned to Philip. There were deep lines in
his face. He smiled, but there was more of haggard misery than
cheer in the smile. There was an unnatural flush in his cheeks,
and he began to feel a burning pain where the blow had fallen upon
his head before. For a full half-minute Jeanne looked at him
without speaking. "Philip," she said--and it was the first time
she had spoken his name in this way, "I insist upon going ashore
immediately. If you do not land--now--in that opening ahead, I
shall jump out, and you can go on alone."

"As you say--my Captain Jeanne," surrendered Philip, a little
dizzily.

Jeanne guided the canoe to the shore, and was the first to spring
out, while Philip steadied the light craft with his paddle. She
pointed to the luggage.

"We will want the tent--everything," she said, "because we are
going to camp here until to-morrow."

Once on shore, Philip's dizziness left him. He pulled the canoe
high up on the bank, and then Jeanne and he set off, side by side,
to explore the high, wooded ground back from the river. They
followed a well-worn moose trail, and two or three hundred yards
from the stream came upon a small opening cluttered by great rocks
and surrounded by clumps of birch, spruce, and banskian pine. The
moose trail crossed this rough open space; and, following it to
the opposite side, Philip and Jeanne came upon a clear, rippling
little stream, scarcely two yards in width, hidden in places under
thick caribou moss and jungles of seedling pines. It was an ideal
camping spot, and Jeanne gave a little cry of delight when they
found the cold water of the creek.

Philip then returned to the river, concealed the canoe, covered up
all traces of their landing, and began to carry the camping outfit
back to the open. The small silk tent for Jeanne's use he set up
in a little grassy corner of the clearing, and built their fire a
dozen paces from it. With a sort of thrilling pleasure he began
cutting balsam boughs for Jeanne's bed. He cut armful after
armful, and it was growing dusk in the forest by the time he was
done. In the glow and the heat of the fire Jeanne's cheeks were as
pink as an apple. She had turned a big flat rock into a table, and
as she busied herself about this she burst suddenly into a soft
ripple of song; then, remembering that it was not Pierre who was
near her, she stopped. Philip, with his last armful of bedding,
was directly behind her, and he laughed happily at her over the
green mass of balsam when she turned and saw him looking at her.

"You like this?" he asked.

"It is glorious!" cried Jeanne, her eyes flashing. She seemed to
grow taller before him, and stood with her head thrown back, lips
parted, gazing upon the wilderness about her. "It is glorious!"
she repeated, breathing deeply. "There is nothing in the whole
world that could make me give this up, M'sieur Philip. I was born
in it. I want to die in it. Only--"

Her face clouded for a moment as her eyes rested upon his.

"Your civilization is coming north to spoil it all," she added,
and turned to the rock table.

Philip dropped his load.

"Supper is ready," she said, and the cloud had passed.

It was Jeanne's first reference to his own people, to the invasion
of civilization into the north, and there recurred to Philip the
words in which she had cried out her hatred against Churchill. But
Jeanne did not betray herself again. She was quiet while they were
eating, and Philip saw that she was very tired. When they had
finished, they sat for a few minutes watching the lowering flames
of the fire. Darkness had gathered about them. Their faces and the
rock were illumined more and more faintly as the embers died down.
A silence fell upon them. In the banskians close behind them an
owl hooted softly, a cautious, drumming note, as though the night-
bird possessed still a fear of the newly dead day. The brush gave
out sound--voices infinitesimally small, strange quiverings,
rustlings that might have been made by wind, by breath, by
shadows, almost. Overhead the tips of the spruce and tall pines
whispered among themselves, as they never commune by day. Spirits
seemed to move among them, sending down to Jeanne's and Philip's
listening ears a restful, sleepy murmur. Farther back there
sounded a deep sniff, where a moose, traveling the well-worn
trail, stopped in sudden fear and wonder at the strange man-scent
which came to its nostrils. And still farther, from some little
lake nameless and undiscovered in the black depths of the forest
to the south, a great northern loon sent out its cowardly cry of
defiance to all night things, and then plunged deep under water,
as though frightened into the depths by its own mad jargon. The
fire died lower. Philip moved a little nearer to the girl, whose
breathing he could hear.

"Jeanne," he said, softly, fighting to keep himself from touching
her hand, "I know what you mean--I understand. Two years ago I
gave up civilization for this. I am glad that I wrote to you as I
did, for now you will believe me and know that I understand. I
love this world up here as you love it. I am never going back
again."

Jeanne was silent.

"But there is one thing, at least one--which I cannot understand
in you," he went on, nerving himself for what might come a moment
later. "You are of this world--you hate civilization--and yet you
have brought a man into the north to teach you its ways. I mean
this man who you say is the most wonderful man in the world."

He waited, trembling. It seemed an eternity before Jeanne
answered. And then she said:

"He is my father, M'sieur Philip."

Philip could not speak. Darkness hid him from Jeanne. She did not
see that which leaped into his face, and that for a moment he was
on the point of flinging himself at her feet.

"You spoke of yourself, of Pierre, of your father, and of one
other at Fort o' God," said Philip. "I thought that he--the other
--was your tutor."

"No, it is Pierre's sister," replied Jeanne.

"Your sister! You have a sister?"

He could hear Jeanne catch her breath.

"Listen, M'sieur,'" she said, after a moment. "I must tell you a
little about Pierre, a story of something that happened a long,
long time ago. It was in the middle of a terrible winter, and
Pierre was then a boy. One day he was out hunting and he came upon
a trail--the trail of a woman who had dragged herself through the
snow in her moccasined feet. It was far out upon a barren, where
there was no life, and he followed. He found her, M'sieur, and she
was dead. She had died from cold and starvation. An hour sooner he
might have saved her, for, wrapped up close against her breast, he
found a little child--a baby girl, and she was alive. He brought
her to Fort o' God, M'sieur--to a noble man who lived there almost
alone; and there, through all these years, she has lived and grown
up. And no one knows who her mother was, or who her father was,
and so it happens that Pierre, who found her, is her brother, and
the man who has loved her and cared for her is her father."

"And she is the other at Fort o' God--Pierre's sister," said
Philip.

Jeanne rose from the rock and moved toward the tent, glimmering
indistinctly in the night. Her voice came back chokingly.

"No, M'sieur. Pierre's real sister is at Fort o' God. I am the one
whom he found out on the barren."

To the night sounds there was added a heart-broken sob, and Jeanne
disappeared in the tent.





XIV


Philip sat where Jeanne had left him. He was powerless to move or
to say a word that might have recalled her. Her own grief,
quivering in that one piteous sob, overwhelmed him. It held him
mute and listening, with the hope that each instant the tent-flap
might open and Jeanne reappear. And yet if she came he had no
words to say. Unwittingly he had probed deep into one of those
wounds that never heal, and he realized that to ask forgiveness
would be but another blunder. He almost groaned as he thought of
what he had done. In his desire to understand, to know more about
Jeanne, he had driven her into a corner. What he had forced from
her he might have learned a little later from Pierre or from the
father at Fort o' God. He thought that Jeanne must despise him
now, for he had taken advantage of her helplessness and his own
position. He had saved her from her enemies; and in return she had
opened her heart, naked and bleeding, to his eyes. What she had
told him was not a voluntary confidence; it was a confession wrung
from her by the rack of his questionings--the confession that she
was a waif-child, that Pierre was not her brother, and that the
man at Fort o' God was not her father. He had gone to the very
depths of that which was sacred to herself and those whom she
loved.

He rose and stirred the fire, and stray ends of birch leaped into
flame, lighting his pale face. He wanted to go to the tent, kneel
there where Jeanne could hear him, and tell her that it was all a
mistake. Yet he knew that this could not be, neither the next day
nor the next, for to plead extenuation for himself would be to
reveal his love. Two or three times he had been on the point of
revealing that love. Only now, after what had happened, did it
occur to him that to disclose his heart to Jeanne would be the
greatest crime he could commit. She was alone with him in the
heart of a wilderness, dependent upon him, upon his honor. He
shivered when he thought how narrow had been his escape, how short
a time he had known her, and how in that brief spell he had given
himself up to an almost insane hope. To him Jeanne was not a
stranger. She was the embodiment, in flesh and blood, of the
spirit which had been his companion for so long. He loved her more
than ever now, for Jeanne the lost child of the snows was more the
earthly revelation of his beloved spirit than Jeanne the sister of
Pierre. But--what was he to Jeanne?

He left the fire and went to the pile of balsam which he had
spread out between two rocks for his bed. He lay down and pulled
Pierre's blanket over him, but his fatigue and his desire for
sleep seemed to have left him, and it was a long time before
slumber finally drove from him the thought of what he had done.
After that he did not move. He heard none of the sounds of the
night. A little owl, the devil-witch, screamed horribly overhead
and awakened Jeanne, who sat up for a few moments in her balsam
bed, white-faced and shivering. But Philip slept. Long afterward
something warm awakened him, and he opened his eyes, thinking that
it was the glow of the fire in his face. It was the sun. He heard
a sound which brought him quickly into consciousness of day. It
was Jeanne singing softly over beyond the rocks.

He had dreaded the coming of morning, when he would have to face
Jeanne. His guilt hung heavily upon him. But the sound of her
voice, low and sweet, filled with the carroling happiness of a
bird, brought a glad smile to his lips. After all, Jeanne had
understood him. She had forgiven him, if she had not forgotten.

For the first time he noticed the height of the sun, and he sat
bolt upright. Jeanne saw his head and shoulders pop over the top
of the rocks, and she laughed at him from their stone table.

"I've been keeping breakfast for over an hour, M'sieur Philip,"
she cried. "Hurry down to the creek and wash yourself, or I shall
eat all alone!"

Philip rose stupidly and looked at his watch.

"Eight o'clock!" he gasped. "We should have been ten miles on the
way by this time!"

Jeanne was still laughing at him. Like sunlight she dispelled his
gloom of the night before. A glance around the camp showed him
that she must have been awake for at least two hours. The packs
were filled and strapped. The silken tent was down and folded. She
had gathered wood, built the fire, and cooked breakfast while he
slept. And now she stood a dozen paces from him, blushing a little
at his amazed stare, waiting for him.

"It's deuced good of you, Miss Jeanne!" he exclaimed. "I don't
deserve such kindness from you."

"Oh!" said Jeanne, and that was all. She bent over the fire, and
Philip went to the creek.

He was determined now to maintain a more certain hold upon
himself. As he doused his face in the cold water his resolutions
formed themselves. For the next few days he would forget
everything but the one fact that Jeanne was in his care; he would
not hurt her again or compel her confidence.

It was after nine o'clock before they were upon the river. They
paddled without a rest until twelve. After lunch Philip
confiscated Jeanne's paddle and made her sit facing him in the
canoe.

The afternoon passed like a dream to Philip, He did not refer
again to Fort o' God or the people there; he did not speak again
of Eileen Brokaw, of Lord Fitzhugh, or of Pierre. He talked of
himself and of those things which had once been his life. He told
of his mother and his father, who had died, and of the little
sister, whom he had worshiped, but who had gone with the others.
He bared his loneliness to her as he would have told them to the
sister, had she lived; and Jeanne's soft blue eyes were filled
with tenderness and sympathy. And then he talked of Gregson's
world. Within himself he called it no longer his own.

It was Jeanne who questioned now. She asked about cities and great
people, about books and WOMEN. Her knowledge amazed Philip. She
might have visited the Louvre. One would have guessed that she had
walked in the streets of Paris, Berlin, and London. She spoke of
Johnson, of Dickens, and of Balzac as though they had died but
yesterday. She was like one who had been everywhere and yet saw
everything through a veil that bewildered her. In her simplicity
she unfolded herself to Philip, leaf by leaf, petal by petal, like
the morning apios that surrenders its mysteries to the sun. She
knew the world which he had come from, its people, its cities, its
greatness; and yet her knowledge was like that of the blind. She
knew, but she had never seen; and in her wistfulness to see as HE
could see there was a sweetness and a pathos which made every
fiber in his body sing with a quiet and thrilling joy. He knew,
now, that the man who was at Fort o' God must, indeed, be the most
wonderful man in the world. For out of a child of the snows, of
the forest, of a savage desolation, he had made Jeanne. And Jeanne
was glorious!

The afternoon passed, and they made thirty miles before they
camped for the night. They traveled the next day, and the one that
followed. On the afternoon of the fourth they were approaching Big
Thunder Rapids, close to the influx of the Little Churchill, sixty
miles from Fort o' God.

These days, too, passed for Philip with joyous swiftness; swiftly
because they were too short for him. His life, now, was Jeanne.
Each day she became a more vital part of him. She crept into his
soul until there was no longer left room for any other thought
than of her. And yet his happiness was tampered by a thing which,
if not grief, depressed and saddened him at times. Two days more
and they would be at Fort o' God, and there Jeanne would be no
longer his own, as she was now. Even the wilderness has its
conventionality, and at Fort o' God their comradeship would end. A
day of rest, two at the most, and he would leave for the camp on
Blind Indian Lake. As the time drew nearer when they would be but
friends and no longer comrades, Philip could not always hide the
signs of gloom which weighed upon him. He revealed nothing in
words; but now and then Jeanne had caught him when the fears at
his heart betrayed themselves in his face. Jeanne became happier
as their journey approached its end. She was alive every moment,
joyous, expectant, looking ahead to Fort o' God; and this in
itself was a bitterness to Philip, though he knew that he was a
fool for allowing it to be so. He reasoned, with dull, masculine
wit, that if Jeanne cared for him at all she would not be so
anxious for their comradeship to end. But these moods, when they
came, passed quickly. And on this afternoon of the fourth day they
passed away entirely, for in an instant there came a solution to
it all. They had known each other but four days, yet that brief
time had encompassed what might not have been in as many years.
Life, smooth, uneventful, develops friendship slowly; an hour of
the unusual may lay bare a soul. Philip thought of Eileen Brokaw,
whose heart was still a closed mystery to him; who was a stranger,
in spite of the years he had known her. In four days he had known
Jeanne a lifetime; in those four days Jeanne had learned more of
him than Eileen Brokaw could ever know. So he arrived at the
resolution which made him, too, look eagerly ahead to the end of
the journey. At Fort o' God he would tell Jeanne of his love.

Jeanne was looking at him when the determination came. She saw the
gloom pass, a flush mount into his face; and when he saw her eyes
upon him he laughed, without knowing why.

"If it is so funny," she said, "please tell me."

It was a temptation, but he resisted it.

"It is a secret," he said, "which I shall keep until we reach Fort
o' God."

Jeanne turned her face up-stream to listen. A dozen times she had
done this during the last half-hour, and Philip had listened with
her. At first they had heard a distant murmur, rising as they
advanced, like an autumn wind that grows stronger each moment in
the tree-tops. The murmur was steady now, without the variations
of a wind. It was the distant roaring of the rocks and rushing
floods of Big Thunder Rapids. It grew steadily from a murmur to a
moan, from a moan to rumbling thunder. The current became so swift
that Philip was compelled to use all his strength to force the
canoe ahead. A few moments later he turned into shore.

From where they landed, a worn trail led up to one of the
precipitous walls of rock and shut in the Big Thunder Rapids.
Everything about them was rock. The trail was over rock, worn
smooth by the countless feet of centuries--clawed feet, naked
feet, moccasined feet, the feet of white men. It was the Great
Portage, for animal as well as man. Philip went up with the pack,
and Jeanne followed behind him. The thunder increased. It roared
in their ears until they could no longer hear their own voices.
Directly above the rapids the trail was narrow, scarcely eight
feet in width, shut in on the land side by a mountain wall, on the
other by the precipice. Philip looked behind, and saw Jeanne
hugging close to the wall. Her face was white, her eyes shone with
terror and awe. He spoke to her, but she saw only the movement of
his lips. Then he put down his pack and went close to the edge of
the precipice.

Sixty feet below him was the Big Thunder, a chaos of lashing foam,
of slippery, black-capped rocks bobbing and grimacing amid the
rushing torrents like monsters playing at hide-and-seek. Now one
rose high, as though thrust up out of chaos by giant hands; then
it sank back, and milk-white foam swirled softly over the place
where it had been. There seemed to be life in the chaos--a grim,
terrible life whose voice was a thunder that never died. For a few
moments Philip stood fascinated by the scene below him. Then he
felt a touch upon his arm. It was Jeanne. She stood beside him
quivering, dead-white, Almost daring to take the final step.
Philip caught her hands firmly in his own, and Jeanne looked over.
Then she darted back and hovered, shuddering, near the wall.

The portage was a short one, scarce two hundred yards in length,
and at the upper end was a small green meadow in which river
voyagers camped. It still lacked two hours of dusk when Philip
carried over the last of the luggage.

"We will not camp here," he said to Jeanne pointing to the remains
of numerous fires and remembering Pierre's exhortation. "It is too
public, as you might say. Besides, that noise makes me deaf."

Jeanne shuddered.

"Let us hurry," she said. "I'm--I'm afraid of THAT!"

Philip carried the canoe down to the river, and Jeanne followed
with the bearskins. The current was soft and sluggish, with tiny
maelstroms gurgling up here and there, like air-bubbles in boiling
syrup. He only half launched the canoe, and Jeanne remained while
he went for another load. The dip, kept green by the water of a
spring, was a pistol-shot from the river. Philip looked back from
the crest and saw Jeanne leaning over the canoe. Then he descended
into the meadow, whistling. He had reached the packs when to his
ears there seemed to come a sound that rose faintly above the roar
of the water in the chasm. He straightened himself and listened.

"Philip! Philip!"

The cry came twice--his own name, piercing, agonizing, rising
above the thunder of the floods. He heard no more, but raced up
the slope of the dip. From the crest he stared down to where
Jeanne had been. She was gone. The canoe was gone. A terrible fear
swept upon him, and for an instant he turned faint. Jeanne's cry
came to him again.

"Philip! Philip!"

Like a madman he dashed up the rocky trail to the chasm, calling
to Jeanne, shrieking to her, telling her that he was coming. He
reached the edge of the precipice and looked down. Below him was
the canoe and Jeanne. She was fighting futilely against the
resistless flood; he saw her paddle wrenched suddenly from her
hands, and as it went swirling beyond her reach she cried out his
name again. Philip shouted, and the girl's white face was turned
up to him. Fifty yards ahead of her were the first of the rocks.
In another minute, even less, Jeanne would be dashed to pieces
before his eyes. Thoughts, swifter than light, flashed through his
mind. He could do nothing for her, for it seemed impossible that
any living creature could exist amid the maelstroms and rocks
ahead. And yet she was calling to him. She was reaching up her
arms to him. She had faith in him, even in the face of death.

"Philip! Philip!"

There was no M'SIEUR to that cry now, only a moaning, sobbing
prayer filled with his name.

"I'm coming, Jeanne!" he shouted. "I'm coming! Hold fast to the
canoe!"

He ran ahead, stripping off his coat. A little below the first
rocks a stunted banskian grew out of an earthy fissure in the
cliff, with its lower branches dipping within a dozen feet of the
stream. He climbed out on this with the quickness of a squirrel,
and hung to a limb with both hands, ready to drop alongside the
canoe. There was one chance, and only one, of saving Jeanne. It
was a chance out of a thousand--ten thousand. If he could drop at
the right moment, seize the stern of the canoe, and make a rudder
of himself, he could keep the craft from turning broadside and
might possibly guide it between the rocks below. This one hope was
destroyed as quickly as it was born. The canoe crashed against the
first rock. A smother of foam rose about it and he saw Jeanne
suddenly engulfed and lost. Then she reappeared, almost under him,
and he launched himself downward, clutching at her dress with his
hands. By a supreme effort he caught her around the waist with his
left arm, so that his right was free.

Ahead of them was a boiling sea of white, even more terrible than
when they had looked down upon it from above. The rocks were
hidden by mist and foam; their roar was deafening. Between Philip
and the awful maelstrom of death there was a quieter space of
water, black, sullen, and swift--the power itself, rushing on to
whip itself into ribbons among the taunting rocks that barred its
way to the sea. In that space Philip looked at Jeanne. Her face
was against his breast. Her eyes met his own, and In that last
moment, face to face with death, love leaped above all fear. They
were about to die, and Jeanne would die in his arms. She was his
now--forever. His hold tightened. Her face came nearer. He wanted
to shout, to let her know what he had meant to say at Fort o' God.
But his voice would have been like a whisper in a hurricane. Could
Jeanne understand? The wall of foam was almost in their faces.
Suddenly he bent down, crushed his face to hers, and kissed her
again and again. Then, as the maelstrom engulfed them, he swung
his own body to take the brunt of the shock.

He no longer reasoned beyond one thing. He must keep his body
between Jeanne and the rocks. He would be crushed, beaten to
pieces, made unrecognizable, but Jeanne would be only drowned. He
fought to keep himself half under her, with his head and shoulders
in advance. When he felt the floods sucking him under, he thrust
her upward. He fought, and did not know what happened. Only there
was the crashing of a thousand cannon in his ears, and he seemed
to live through an eternity. They thundered about him, against
him, ahead of him, and then more and more behind. He felt no pain,
no shock. It was the SOUND that he seemed to be fighting; in the
buffeting of his body against the rocks there was the painlessness
of a knife-thrust delivered amid the roar of battle. And the sound
receded. It was thundering in retreat, and a curious thought came
to him. Providence had delivered him through the maelstrom. He had
not struck the rocks. He was saved. And in his arms he held
Jeanne.

It was day when he began the fight, broad day. And now it was
night. He felt earth, under his feet, and he knew that he had
brought Jeanne ashore. He heard her voice speaking his name; and
he was so glad that he laughed and sobbed like a babbling idiot.
It was dark, and he was tired. He sank down, and he could feel
Jeanne's arms striving to hold him up, and he could still hear her
voice. But nothing could keep him from sleeping. And during that
sleep he had visions. Now it was day, and he saw Jeanne's face
over him; again it was night, and he heard only the roaring of the
flood. Again he heard voices, Jeanne's voice and a man's, and he
wondered who the man could be. It was a strange sleep filled with
strange dreams. But at last the dreams seemed to go. He lost
himself. He awoke, and the night had turned into day. He was in a
tent, and the sun was gleaming on the outside. It had been a
curious dream, and he sat up astonished.

There was a man sitting beside him. It was Pierre.

"Thank God, M'sieur!" he heard. "We have been waiting for this.
You are saved!"

"Pierre!" he gasped.

Memory returned to him. He was awake. He felt weak, but he knew
that what he saw was not the vision of a dream.

"I came the day after you went through the rapids," explained
Pierre, seeing his amazement. "You saved Jeanne. She was not hurt.
But you were badly bruised, M'sieur, and you have been in a
fever."

"Jeanne--was not--hurt?"

"No. She cared for you until I came. She is sleeping now."

"I have not been this way--very long, have I, Pierre?"

"I came yesterday," said Pierre. He bent over Philip, and added:
"You must remain quiet for a little longer, M'sieur. I have
brought you a letter from M'sieur Gregson, and when you read that
I will have some broth made for you."

Philip took the letter and opened it as Pierre went quietly out of
the tent. Gregson had written him but a few lines. He wrote:

MY DEAR PHIL,--I hope you'll forgive me. But I'm tired of this
mess. I was never cut out for the woods, and so I'm going to
dismiss myself, leaving all best wishes behind for you. Go in and
fight. You're a devil for fighting, and will surely win. I'll only
be in the way. So I'm going back with the ship, which leaves in
three or four days. Was going to tell you this on the night you
disappeared. Am sorry I couldn't shake hands with you before I
left. Write and let me know how things come out. As ever,

TOM.

Stunned, Philip dropped the letter. He lifted his eyes, and a
strange cry burst from his lips. Nothing that Gregson had written
could have wrung that cry from him. It was Jeanne. She stood in
the open door of the tent. But it was not the Jeanne he had known.
A terrible grief was written in her face. Her lips were bloodless,
her eyes lusterless; deep suffering seemed to have put hollows in
her cheeks. In a moment she had fallen upon her knees beside him
and clasped one of his hands in both of her own.

"I am so glad," she whispered, chokingly.

For an instant she pressed his hands to her face.

"I am so glad--"

She rose to her feet, swaying slightly. She turned to the door,
and Philip could hear her sobbing as she left him.





XV


Not until the silken flap of the tent had fallen behind Jeanne did
power of movement and speech return to Philip. He called her name
and straggled to a sitting posture. Then he staggered to his feet.
He could scarcely stand. Shooting pains passed like flashes of
electricity through his body. His right arm was numb and stiff,
and he found that it was thickly bandaged. His head ached, his
legs could hardly support him. He went to raise his left hand to
his head, but stopped it in front of him, while a slow smile of
understanding crept over his face. It was swollen and covered with
livid bruises. He wondered if his body looked that way, and sank
down exhausted upon his balsam bed. A minute later Pierre returned
with a cup of broth in his hand.

Philip looked at him with less feverish eyes now. There was an
unaccountable change in the half-breed's appearance, as there had
been in Jeanne's. His face seemed thinner. There was a deep gloom
in his eyes, a dejected droop to his shoulders. Philip accepted
the broth, and drank it slowly, without speaking. He felt
strengthened. Then he looked steadily at Pierre. The old pride had
fallen from Pierre like a mask. His eyes dropped under Philip's
gaze.

Philip held up a hand.

"Pierre!"

The half-breed grasped it and waited. His lips tightened.

"What is the matter?" demanded Philip. "What has happened to
Jeanne? You say she was not hurt--"

"By the rocks, M'sieur," interrupted Pierre, quickly, kneeling
beside Philip. "Listen. It is best that I tell you. You are a man,
you will understand, without being told all. From Churchill I
brought news which it was necessary for me to tell Jeanne. It was
terrible news, and she is distressed under its weight. Your honor
will not allow you to inquire further, M'sieur. I can tell you no
more than this--that it is a grief which belongs to but one person
on earth--herself. I ask you to help me. Be blind to her
unhappiness, M'sieur. Believe that it is the distress of the peril
through which she has passed. A little later I will tell you all,
and you will understand. But it is impossible now. I confide this
much in you--I ask you this--because--"

Pierre's eyes were half closed, and he looked as though unseeing
over Philip's head.

"I ask you this," he repeated, softly, "because I have guessed--
that you love her."

A cry of joy burst from Philip's lips.

"I do, Pierre--I do--I do--"

"I have guessed it," said Pierre. "You will help me--to save her!"

"Until death!"

"Then you will go with us to Fort o' God, and from there you will
go at once to your camp on Blind Indian Lake."

Philip felt the sweat breaking out over his face. He was still
weak. His voice was unnatural, and trembled.

"You know--" he gasped.

"Yes, I know, M'sieur," replied Pierre. "I know that you are in
charge there, and Jeanne knows. We knew who you were before we
appointed to meet you on the cliff. You must return to your men."

Philip was silent. For the moment every hope was crushed within
him.

He looked at Pierre. The half-breed's eyes were glowing, his
haggard cheeks were flushed.

"And this is necessary?"

"It is absolutely necessary, M'sieur."

"Then I will go. But first, Pierre, I must know a little more. I
cannot go entirely blind. Do they fear my men--at Fort o' God?"

"No, M'sieur."

"One more question, Pierre. Who is Lord Fitzhugh Lee?"

For an instant Pierre's eyes widened. They grew black, and burned
with a strange, threatening fire. He rose slowly to his feet, and
placed both hands upon Philip's shoulders. For a full minute the
two men stared into each other's face. Then Pierre spoke. His
voice was soft and low, scarcely above a murmur, but it was filled
with something that struck a chill to Philip's heart.

"I would kill you before I would answer that question, M'sieur,"
he said. "No other person has ever done for Jeanne and I what you
have done. We owe you more than we can ever repay. Yet if you
insist upon an answer to that question you make of me an enemy; if
you breathe that name to Jeanne, you turn her away from you
forever."

Without another word he left the tent.

For many minutes Philip sat motionless where Pierre had left him.
The earth seemed suddenly to have dropped from under his feet,
leaving him in an illimitable chaos of mind. Gregson had deserted
him, with almost no word of explanation, and he would have staked
his life upon Gregson's loyalty. Under other circumstances his
unaccountable action would have been a serious blow. But now it
was overshadowed by the mysterious change that had come over
Jeanne. A few hours before she had been happy, laughing and
singing as they drew nearer to Fort o' God; each hour had added to
the brightness of her eyes, the gladness in her voice. The change
had come with Pierre. and at the bottom of it all was Lord
Fitzhugh Lee. Pierre had warned him not to mention Lord Fitzhugh's
name to Jeanne, and yet only a short time before he had spoken the
name boldly before Jeanne, and she had betrayed no sign of
recognition or of fear. More than that, she had assured him that
she had never heard the name before, that it was not known at Fort
o' God.

Philip bowed his head in his hands, and his fingers clutched in
his hair. What did it all mean? He went back to the scene on the
cliff, when Pierre had roused himself at the sound of the name; he
thought of all that had happened since Gregson had come to
Churchill, and the result was a delirium of thought that made his
temples throb. He was sure--now--of but few things. He loved
Jeanne--loved her more than he had ever dreamed that he could love
a woman, and he believed that it would be impossible for her to
tell him a falsehood. He was confident that she had never heard of
Lord Fitzhugh until Pierre overtook them in their flight from
Churchill. He could see but one thing to do, and that was to
follow Pierre's advice, accepting his promise that in the end
everything would come out right. He had faith in Pierre.

He rose to his feet and went to the tent-flap. An embarrassing
thought came to him, and he stopped, a flush of feverish color
suddenly mounting into his pale cheeks. He had kissed Jeanne in
the chasm, when death thundered in their faces. He had kissed her
again and again, and in those kisses he had declared his love. He
was glad, and yet sorry; the knowledge that she must know of his
love filled him with happiness, and yet with it there was the
feeling that it would place a distance between him and Jeanne.

Jeanne was the first to see him when he came out of the tent. She
was sitting beside a small balsam shelter, and Pierre was busy
over a fire, with his back turned to them. For a moment the two
looked at each other in silence, and then Jeanne came toward him,
holding out one of her hands. He saw that she was making a strong
effort to appear natural, but there was something in his own face
that made her attempt a poor one. The hand that she gave him
trembled. Her lips quivered. For the first time her eyes failed to
meet his own in their limpid frankness.

"Pierre has told you what happened," she said. "It was a miracle,
and I owe you my life. I have had my punishment for being so
careless." She tried to laugh at him now, and drew her hand away.
"I wasn't beaten against the rocks, like you, but--"

"It was terrible," interrupted Philip, remembering Pierre's words,
and eager to put her at ease. "You have stood up under it
beautifully. I am afraid of after effects. You must not collapse
under the strain now."

Pierre heard his last words and a smile flashed over his dark face
as he encountered Philip's glance.

"It is true, M'sieur," he said. "I know of no other woman who
would have stood up under such a thing as Jeanne has done. MON
DIEU, when I found a part of the canoe wreckage far below I
thought that both of you were dead!"

Philip began to feel that he had foolishly overestimated his
strength. There was a weakness in his limbs that surprised him,
and a sudden chill replaced the fever in his blood. Jeanne placed
her hand upon his arm and thrust him gently toward the tent.

"You must not exert yourself," she said, watching the pallor in
his face. "You must be quiet, until after dinner."

He obeyed the pressure of her hand. Pierre followed into the tent,
and for a moment he was compelled to lean heavily upon the half-
breed.

"It is the reaction, M'sieur," said Pierre. "You are weak after
the fever. If you could sleep--"

"I can," murmured Philip, dizzily, dropping upon his balsam. "But,
Pierre--"

"Yes, M'sieur."

"I have something--to say to you--no questions--"

"Not now, M'sieur."

Philip heard the rustling of the flap, and Pierre was gone. He
felt more comfortable lying down. Dizziness and nausea left him,
and he slept. It was the deep, refreshing sleep that always
follows the awakening from fever. When he awoke he felt like his
old self, and went outside. Pierre was alone; a blanket was drawn
across the front of the balsam shelter, and the half-breed nodded
toward it in response to Philip's inquiring glance.

Philip ate lightly of the food which Pierre had ready for him.
When he had finished he leaned close to him, and said:

"You have warned me to ask no questions, and I am going to ask
none. But you have not forbidden me to tell you things which I
know. I am going to talk to you about Lord Fitzhugh Lee."

Pierre's dark eyes flashed.

"M'sieur--"

"Listen!" demanded Philip. "I seek your confidence no further. But
I shall tell you what I know of Lord Fitzhugh Lee, if it makes us
fight. Do you understand? I insist upon this because you have as
good as told me that this man is your enemy, and that he is at the
bottom of Jeanne's trouble. He is also my enemy. And after I have
told you why--you may change your determination to keep me a
stranger to your trouble. If not--well, you can hold your tongue
then as well as now."

Quickly, without moving his eyes from Pierre's face, Philip told
his own story of Lord Fitzhugh Lee. And as he continued a strange
change came over the half-breed. When he came to the letters
revealing the plot to turn the northerners against his company a
low cry escaped Pierre's lips. His eyes seemed starting from his
head. Drops of sweat burst out upon his face. His fingers worked
convulsively, something rose in his throat and choked him. When
Philip had done he buried his face in his hands. For a few moments
he remained thus, and then suddenly looked up. Livid spots burned
in his cheeks, and he fairly hissed at Philip.

"M'sieur, if this is not the truth--if this is a lie--"

He stopped. Something in Philip's eyes told him to go no further.
He was fearless, and he saw more than fearlessness in Philip's
face. Such men believe, when they come together.

"It is the truth," said Philip.

With a low, strained laugh Pierre held out his hand as a pledge of
his faith.

"I believe in you, M'sieur," he said, and it seemed an effort for
him to speak. "Do you know what I would have thought, if you had
told this to Jeanne before I came?"

"No."

"I would have thought, M'sieur, that she threw herself purposely
into the death of the Big Thunder rocks."

"My God, you mean--"

"That is all, M'sieur. I can say no more. Ah, there is Jeanne!" he
cried, more loudly. "Now we will take down the tent, and go."

Jeanne stood a dozen steps behind them when Philip turned. She
greeted him with a smile, and hastened to assist Pierre in
gathering up the things about the camp. Philip was not blind to
her efforts to evade him. He could see that it was a relief to her
when they were at last in Pierre's canoe, and headed up the river.
They traveled till late in the evening, and set up Jeanne's tent
by starlight. The journey was continued at dawn. Late the
following afternoon the Little Churchill swept through a low,
woodless country, called the White Fox Barren. It was a narrow
barren and across it lay the forest and the ridge mountains.
Behind these mountains and the forest the sun was setting. Above
all else there rose out of the gathering gloom of evening a single
ridge, a towering mass of rock which caught the last glow of the
sun, and blazed like a signal-fire.

The canoe stopped. Jeanne and Pierre both gazed toward the great
rock.

Then Jeanne, who was in the bow, turned her face to Philip, and
the glow of the rock itself suffused her cheeks as she pointed
over the barren.

"M'sieur Philip," she said, "there is Fort o' God!"





XVI


There was a low tremble in Jeanne's voice. The canoe swung
broadside to the slow current, and Philip looked in astonishment
at the change in Pierre. The tired half-breed had uncovered his
head, and knelt with his face turned to that last crimson glow in
the sky, like one in prayer. But his eyes were open, there was a
smile on his lips, and he was breathing quickly. Pride and joy
came where there had been the lines of grief and exhaustion. His
shoulders were thrown back, his head erect, and the fire of the
distant rock reflected itself in his eyes. From him Philip turned,
so that he could look into Jeanne's face. The girl, too, had
changed. Again these two were the Pierre and Jeanne whom he had
seen that first night on the moonlit cliff. Pierre seemed no
longer the half-breed, but the prince of the rapier and broad
cuffs; and Jeanne, smiling proudly at Philip, made him an
exquisite little courtesy from her cramped seat in the bow, and
said:

"M'sieur Philip, welcome to Fort o' God!"

"Thank you," he said, and stared toward the sun-capped rock.

He could see nothing but the rock, the black forests, and the
desolate barren stretching between. Fort o' God, unless it was the
rock itself, was still a mystery hidden in the gathering gloom.
The canoe began moving slowly onward, and Jeanne turned so that
her eyes searched the stream ahead. A thick wall of stunted forest
shut out the barren from their view; the stream grew narrower, and
on the opposite side a barren ridge, threatening them with torn
and upheaved masses of rock, flung the heavy shadows of evening
down upon them. No one spoke. Philip could hear Pierre breathing
behind him: something in the intense quiet--in the awesome effect
which their approach to Fort o' God had upon these two--sent
strange little thrills shooting through his body. He listened, and
heard nothing, not even the howl of a dog. The stillness was
oppressive, and the darkness thickened about them. For half an
hour they continued, and then Pierre headed the canoe into a
narrow creek, thrusting it through a thick growth of wild rice and
reeds,

Balsam and cedar and swamp hazel shut them in. Overhead the tall
cedars interlaced, and hid the pale light of the sky. Philip could
just make out Jeanne ahead of him.

And then, suddenly, there came a wonderful change. They shot out
of the darkness, as if from a tunnel, but so quietly that one a
dozen feet away could not have heard the ripple of Pierre's
paddle. Almost in their faces rose a huge black bulk, and in that
blackness three or four yellow lights gleamed like mellow stars.
The canoe touched noiselessly upon sand. Pierre sprang out, still
without sound. Jeanne followed, with a whispered word. Philip was
last.

Pierre pulled the canoe up, and Jeanne came to Philip. She held
out her two hands. Her face shone white in the gloom, and there
was a look in her beautiful eyes, as she stood for a moment almost
touching him, that set his heart jumping. She let her hands lie in
his while she spoke.

"We have not even alarmed the dogs, M'sieur Philip," she
whispered. "Is not that splendid? I am going to surprise father,
and you will go with Pierre. I will see you a little later, and--"

She rose on tiptoe, and her face was dangerously close to his own.

"And you are very, very welcome to Fort o' God, M'sieur."

She slipped away into the darkness, and Pierre stood beside
Philip. His white teeth were gleaming strangely, and he said in a
soft voice:

"M'sieur, that is the first time that I have ever heard those
words spoken at Fort o' God. We welcome no man here who has your
blood and your civilization in his veins. You are greater than a
king!"

With a sudden exclamation Philip turned upon Pierre.

"And that is the reason for Jeanne's surprise?" he said. "She
wishes to pave a way for me. I begin to understand!"

"It is true that you might not have received that welcome which
you are certain to receive now from the master of Fort o' God,"
replied Pierre, frankly. "So we will go in quietly, and make no
disturbance, while your way is being paved, as you call it."

He walked ahead, with Philip following so closely that he could
have touched him. He made out more distinctly now the lines of the
huge black edifice from which the lights shone. It was a massive
structure of logs, two stories high, a half of it almost
completely hidden in the impenetrable shadow of a great wall of
rock. Philip's eyes traveled up this wall, and he was convinced
that he stood under the rock upon whose towering crest he had seen
the last reflection of the evening sun. About him there were no
signs of life or of other habitation. Pierre moved swiftly. They
passed under a small lighted window that was a foot above Philip's
head, and turned around the corner of the building. Here all was
blackness.

Pierre went straight to a door, and uttered at low word of
satisfaction when he found that it was not barred. He opened it,
and reached out a guiding hand to Philip's arm. Philip entered,
and the door closed softly behind him. He felt the flow of warm
air in his face, and his moccasined feet trod upon something soft
and velvety. Faintly, as though coming from a great distance, he
heard a voice singing. It was a woman's voice, but he knew that it
was not Jeanne's.

In spite of himself his heart was beating excitedly. The mystery
of Fort o' God was about him, warm and subtle, like a strange
spirit, sending through him the thrill of anticipation, a hundred
fancies, little fears. Pierre advanced, still guiding him; then he
stopped, and chuckled softly in the darkness. The distant voice
had stopped singing, and there came in place of it the loud
barking of a dog, an unintelligible sound of a voice, and then
quiet. Jeanne had sprung her surprise.

Pierre led the way to another room.

"This is to be your room, M'sieur," he explained. "Make yourself
comfortable. I have no doubt that the master of Fort o' God will
wish to see you very soon."

He struck a match as he spoke, and lighted a lamp. A moment more
and he was gone.

Philip looked about him. He was in a room fully twenty feet
square, furnished in a manner that drew from him an audible gasp
of astonishment. At one end of the room was a massive mahogany
bed, screened by heavy curtains which were looped back by silken
cords. Near the bed was an old-fashioned mahogany dresser, with a
diamond-shaped mirror, and in front of it a straight-backed chair
adorned with the grotesque carving of an ancient and long-dead
fashion. About him, everywhere, were the evidences of luxury and
of age. The big lamp, which gave a brilliant light, was of
hammered brass; the base of its square pedestal was partly hidden
in the rumples of a heavy damask spread which covered the table on
which it rested. The table itself was old, spindle-legged, glowing
with the mellow luster endowed by many passing generations--a
relic of the days when the originator of its fashion became the
favorite of a capricious and beautiful queen. Soft rugs were upon
the floor; from the walls, papered and hung with odd bits of
tapestry, strange faces looked down upon Philip from out of heavy
gilded frames; faces grim, pale, shadowed; men with plaited
ruffles and curls; women with powdered hair, who gazed down upon
him haughtily, as if they wondered at his intrusion.

One picture was turned with its face to the wall.

Philip sank into a huge arm-chair, cushioned with velvet, and
dropped his cap upon the floor. And this was Fort o' God! He
scarcely breathed. He was back two centuries, and he stared, as if
each moment he expected some manifestation of life in what he saw.
He had dreamed his dream over the dead at Churchill; here it was
reality--almost; it lacked but a breath, a movement, a flutter of
life in the dead faces that looked down upon him. He gazed up at
them again, and laughed a little nervously. Then he fixed his eyes
on the opposite wall. One of the pictures was moving. The thought
in his brain had given birth to the movement he had imagined. It
was a woman's face in the picture, young and beautiful, and it
nodded to him, one moment radiant with light, the next caught in
shadows that cast over it a gloom. He jumped from his chair and
went so that he stood directly under it.

A current of warm air shot up into his face from the floor. It was
this air that was causing movement in the picture, and he looked
down. What he discovered broke the spell he was under. About him
were the relics of age, of a life long dead. Rubens might have sat
in that room, and mourned over his handiwork, lost in a
wilderness. The stingy Louis might have recognized in the spindle-
legged table a bit of his predecessor's extravagance, which he had
sold for the good of the exchequer of France; a Gobelin might have
reclaimed one of the woven landscapes on the wall, a Grosellier
himself have issued from behind the curtained bed. Philip himself,
in that environment, was the stranger. It was the current of warm
air which brought him back from the eighteenth to the twentieth
century. Under his feet was a furnace!

Even the master of Fort o' God, stern and forbidding as Philip
began to imagine him, might have laughed at the look which came
into his face. Grosellier, the cavalier, had he appeared, Philip
would have accepted with the same confidence that he had accepted
Jeanne and Pierre. But--a furnace! He thrust his hands deep in his
pockets, a trick which was always the last convincing evidence of
his perplexity, and walked slowly around the room. There were two
books on the table. One, bound in faded red vellum, was a Greek
Anthology, the other Drummond's Ascent of Man. There were other
books on a quaintly carved shelf, under the picture which had been
turned to the wall. He ran over the titles. There were a number of
French novels, Ely's Socialism, Sir Thomas More's Utopia, St.
Pierre's Paul and Virginia, and a dozen other volumes; there were
Balzac and Hugo, and Dante's Divine Comedy. Amid this array, like
a black sheep lost among the angels, was a finger-worn and faded
little volume bearing the name Camille. Something about this one
book, so strangely out of place in its present company, aroused
Philip's curiosity. It bore the name, too, which he had found
worked in the corner of Jeanne's handkerchief. In a way, the
presence of this book gave him a sort of shock, and he took it in
his hands, and opened the cover. Under his fingers were pages
yellow and frayed with age, and in an ancient type, once black,
the title, The Meaning of God. In a large masculine hand some one
had written under this title the accompanying words; "A black skin
often contains a white soul; a woman's beauty, hell."

Philip replaced the book with a feeling of awe. Something in those
words, brutal in their truth--something in the strange whim that
had placed a pearl of purity within the faded and worn mask of the
condemned, seemed to speak to him of a tragedy that might be a key
to the mystery of Fort o' God. From the books he looked up at the
picture which had been turned to the wall. The temptation to see
what was hidden overcame him, and he turned the frame over. Then
he stepped back with a low cry of pleasure.

From out of the proscribed canvas there smiled down upon him a
face of bewildering beauty. It was the face of a young woman, a
stranger among its companions, because it was of the present.
Philip stepped to one side, so that the light from the lamp shone
from behind him, and he wondered if the picture had been condemned
to hang with its face to the wall because it typified the existent
rather than the past. He looked more closely, and drew back step
by step, until he was in the proper focus to bring out every
expression in the lovely face. In the picture he saw each moment a
greater resemblance to Jeanne. The eyes, the hair, the sweetness
of the mouth, the smile, brought to him a vision of Jeanne
herself. The woman in the picture was older than Jeanne, and his
first thought was that it must be a sister, or her mother. It came
to him in the next breath that this would be impossible, for
Jeanne had been found by Pierre in the deep snows, on her dead
mother's breast. And this was a painting of life, of youth, of
beauty, and not of death and starvation.

He returned the forbidden picture to the position in which he had
found it against the wall, half ashamed of the act and thoughts
into which his curiosity had led him. And yet, after all, it was
not curiosity. He told himself that as he washed himself and
groomed his disheveled clothes.

An hour had passed when he heard a low tap at the door, and Pierre
came in. In that time the half-breed had undergone a
transformation. He was dressed in an exquisite coat of yellow
buckskin, with the same old-fashioned cuffs he had worn when
Philip first saw him, trousers of the same material, buckled below
the knees, and boot-moccasins with flaring tops. He wore a new
rapier at his waist, and his glossy black hair was brushed
smoothly back, and fell loose upon his shoulders. It was the
courtier, and not Pierre the half-breed, who bowed to Philip.

"M'sieur, are you ready?" he asked.

"Yes," replied Philip.

"Then we will go to M'sieur d'Arcambal, the master of Fort o'
God."

They passed out into the hall, which was faintly illumined now, so
that Philip caught glimpses of deep shadows and massive doors as
he followed behind Pierre. They turned into a second hall, at the
end of which was an open door through which came a flood of light.
At this door Pierre stopped, and with a bow allowed his companion
to pass in ahead of him. The next moment Philip stood in a room
twice as large as the one he had left. It was brilliantly lighted
by three or four lamps; he had only an instant's vision of
numberless shelves loaded with books, of walls covered with
pictures, of a ponderous table in front of him, and then he heard
a voice.

A man stepped out from beside the door, and he stood face to face
with the master of Fort o' God.





XVII


He was an old man. Beard and hair were white. He was as tall as
Philip; his shoulders were broader; his chest massive; and as he
stood under the light of one of the hanging lamps, his face
shining with a pale glow, one hand upon his breast, the other
extended, it seemed to Philip that all of the greatness and past
glory of Fort o' God, whatever they may have been, were
personified in the man he beheld. He was dressed in soft buckskin,
like Pierre. His hair and beard grew in wild disorder, and from
under shaggy eyebrows there burned a pair of deep-set eyes of the
color of blue steel. He was a man to inspire awe; old, and yet
young; white-haired, gray-faced, and yet a giant. One might have
expected from between his bearded lips a voice as thrilling as his
appearance; a rumbling voice, deep-chested, sonorous--and it would
have caused no surprise. It was the voice that surprised Philip
more than the man. It was low, and trembling with an agitation
which even strength and pride could not control.

"Philip Whittemore, I am Henry d'Arcambal. May God bless you for
what you have done!"

A hand of iron gripped his own. And then, before Philip had found
words to say, the master of Fort o' God suddenly placed his arms
about his shoulders and embraced him. Their shoulders touched.
Their faces were close. The two men who loved Jeanne d'Arcambal
above all else on earth gazed for a silent moment into each
other's eyes.

"They have told me," said D'Arcambal, softly. "You have brought my
Jeanne home through death. Accept a father's blessing, and with
it--this!"

He stepped back, and swept his arms about the great room.

"Everything--everything--would have gone with her," he said. "If
you had let her die, I should have died. My God, what peril she
was in! In saving her you saved me. So you are welcome here, as a
son. For the first time since my Jeanne was a babe Fort o' God
offers itself to a man who is a stranger and its hospitality is
yours so long as its walls hang together. And as they have done
this for upward of two hundred years, M'sieur Philip, we may
conclude that our friendship is to be without end."

He clasped Philip's hands again, and two tears coursed down his
gray cheeks. It was difficult for Philip to restrain the joy his
words produced, which, coming from the lips of Jeanne's father,
lifted him suddenly into a paradise of hope. For many reasons he
had come to expect a none too warm reception at Fort o' God; he
had looked ahead to the place with a grim sort of fear, scarcely
definable; and here Jeanne's father was opening his arms to him.
Pierre was unapproachable; Jeanne herself was a mystery, filling
him alternately with hope and despair; D'Arcambal had accepted him
as a son. He could find no words adequate to his emotion; none
that could describe his own happiness, unless it was in a bold
avowal of his love for the girl he had saved. And this his good
sense told him not to make, at the present moment.

"Any man would have done as much for your daughter," he said at
last, "and I am happy that I was the fortunate one to render her
assistance."

"You are wrong," said D'Arcambal, taking him by the arm. "You are
one out of a thousand. It takes a MAN to go through the Big
Thunder and come out at the other end alive. I know of only one
other who has done that in the last twenty years, and that other
is Henry d'Arcambal himself. We three, you, Jeanne, and I, have
alone triumphed over those monsters of death. All others have
died. It seems like a strange pointing of the hand of God."

Philip trembled.

"We three!" he exclaimed.

"We three," said the old man, "and for that reason you are a part
of Fort o' God."

He led Philip deeper into the great room, and Philip saw that
almost all the space along the walls of the huge room was occupied
by shelves upon shelves of books, masses of papers, piles of
magazines shoulder-high, scores of maps and paintings. The massive
table was covered with books; there were piles on smaller tables;
chairs, and the floor itself, covered with the skins of a score of
wild beasts, were littered with them. At the far end of the room
he saw deeper and darker shelves, where gleamed faintly in the
lamplight row upon row of vials and bottles and strange
instruments of steel and glass. A scientist in the wilderness--a
student exiled in a desolation! These were the thoughts that
leaped into his mind, and he knew that in this room Jeanne had
been created; that here, between these centuries-old walls, amid
an environment of strange silence, of whispering age, her visions
of the world had come. Here, separated from all her kind, God,
Nature, and a father had made her of their handiwork.

The old man pointed Philip to a chair near the large table, and
sat down close to him. At his feet was a stool covered with
silvery lynx-skin, and D'Arcambal looked at this, his strong, grim
face relaxing into a gentle smile of happiness.

"There is where Jeanne sits--at my feet," he said. "It has been
her place for many years. When she is not there I am lost. Life
ceases. This room has been our world. To-night you are in Fort o'
God; to-morrow you will see D'Arcambal House. You have heard of
that, perhaps, but never of Fort o' God. That belongs to Jeanne
and me, to Pierre--and you. Fort o' God is the heart, the soul,
the life's blood of D'Arcambal House. It is this room and two or
three others. D'Arcambal House is our barrier. When strangers
come, they see D'Arcambal House; plain rooms, of rough wood;
quarters such as you have seen at posts and stations; the mask
which gives no hint of what is hidden within. It is there that we
live to the world; it is here that we live to ourselves. Jeanne
has my permission to tell you whatever she wishes, a little later.
But I am curious, and being an old man must be humored first. I am
still trembling. You must tell me what happened to Jeanne."

For an hour they talked, and Philip went over one by one the
events as they had occurred since the fight on the cliff, omitting
only such things as he thought that Jeanne and Pierre might wish
to keep secret to themselves. At the end of that hour he was
certain that D'Arcambal was unaware of the dark cloud that had
suddenly come into Jeanne's life. The old man's brow was knitted
with deep lines, and his powerful jaws were set hard, as Philip
told of the ambush, of the wounding of Pierre, and the flight of
his assailants with his daughter. It was to get money, the old man
thought. The half-breed had suggested that, and Jeanne herself had
given it as her opinion. Why else should they have been attacked
at Churchill? Such things had occurred before, he told Philip. The
little daughter of the factor at Nelson House had been stolen, and
held for ransom. With a hundred questions he wrung from Philip
every detail of the second fight and of the struggle for life in
the rapids. He betrayed no physical excitement, even in those
moments of Philip's description when Jeanne hung between life and
death; but in his eyes there was the glow of red-hot fires. At
last there came to interrupt them the low, musical tinkling of a
bell under the table.

D'Arcambal's face lighted up suddenly.

"Ah, I had forgotten," he exclaimed. "Pardon me, Philip. Dinner
has been awaiting us this last half-hour; and besides--"

He reached out and touched a tiny button, which Philip had not
observed before.

"I am selfish."

He had hardly ceased speaking when footsteps sounded in the hall,
and in spite of every resolution he had made to guard himself
against any betrayal of the emotions burning in his breast, Philip
sprang to his feet. Jeanne had come in under the glow of the lamps
and stood now a dozen feet from him, a vision so exquisitely
lovely that he saw nothing of those who entered behind her, nor
heard D'Arcambal's low, happy laugh at his side. It seemed to him
for a moment as if there had suddenly appeared before him the face
of the picture that was turned against the wall, only more
beautiful now, radiant with the glow of living flesh and blood.
But there was something even more startling than this resemblance.
In this moment Jeanne was the fulfilment of his dream; she had
come to him from out of another world. She was dressed in an old-
fashioned gown of pure white, a fabric so delicate that it seemed
to float about her slender form, responsive to every breath she
drew. Her white shoulders revealed themselves above masses of
filmy lace that fell upon her bosom; her slender arms, girlish
rather than womanly in their beauty, were bare. Her hair was bound
up in shining coils about her head, with a single flower nestling
amid a little cluster of curls that fell upon her neck. After his
first movement, Philip recovered himself by a strong effort. He
bowed low to conceal the flush in his face. Jeanne swept him a
little courtesy, and then ran past him, with the eagerness of any
modern child, into the outstretched arms of her father.

Laughter and joy rumbled in the beard of the master of Fort o' God
as he looked over Jeanne's head at Philip.

"And this is what you have saved for me," he said.

Then he looked beyond, and for the first time Philip realized
there were others in the room. One was Pierre; the other a pretty,
dark-faced girl, with hair that glistened like a raven's wing in
the lamp-glow.

Jeanne left her father's arms and gave her hand to Philip.

"M'sieur Philip, this is my sister, Mademoiselle Couchee," she
cried.

Pierre's sister gave Philip her hand, and behind them D'Arcambal
laughed softly in his beard again, and said:

"To-morrow, in D'Arcambal House, you may call her Otille, Philip.
But to-night we are in Fort o' God. Oh, Jeanne, Jeanne, what a
witch you are!"

"An angel!" breathed Philip, but no one heard him.

"And this witch," added the old man, "you are to take in to
supper, M'sieur Philip. To night I suppose that I must call you
m'sieur, but to-morrow, when I have on my leather leggings and my
skin cap, I will call you Phil, or Tom, Dick, or Harry, just as I
please. This is the first time, sir, that my Jeanne has ever gone
in to dinner on another arm than mine or Pierre's. And so I may be
a little jealous. Proceed."

As Jeanne's hand rested in his arm, and they went into the hall,
Philip could not restrain himself from whispering:

"I am glad--of that."

"And the dress, M'sieur Philip!" exclaimed D'Arcambal behind them,
in the voice of a happy boy. "It is an honor to escort that, to
say nothing of the silly girl that's in it. That dress, sir,
belonged to a beautiful lady who was called Camille, and who died
over a century ago."

"Father, please do be good!" protested Jeanne. "Remember!"

"Ah, so I will," said her father. "I had forgotten that you were
to tell M'sieur Philip these things."

They entered another room illuminated by a single huge lamp
suspended above a table spread with silver and fine linen. The
room was as great a surprise as the other two had been. It
contained no chairs. What Philip mentally designated as benches,
with deep cushion seats of greenish leather, were arranged about
the table. These same curious seats furnished other parts of the
room. From the pictures on the walls to the ancient helmet and
cuirass that stood up like a legless sentinel in one corner, this
room, like the others, breathed of extreme age. Over a big open
fireplace, in which half a dozen birch logs were burning, hung a
number of old-fashioned weapons; a flintlock, a pair of obsolete
French dueling pistols, a short rapier similar to that which
Pierre wore, and two long swords. Philip noticed that about each
of the dueling pistols was tied a bow of ribbon, dull and faded,
as though the passing of generations had robbed them of beauty and
color, to be replaced by the somberness of age.

During the meal Philip could not but observe that Jeanne was
laboring under some mysterious strain. Her cheeks were brilliantly
flushed, and her eyes were filled with a lustrous brightness that
he had never seen in them before. Their beauty was almost
feverish. Several times he caught a strange little tremor of her
white shoulders, as though a sudden chill had passed through her.
He discovered, too, that Pierre was observing these things, and
that there was something forced in the half-breed's cheerfulness.
But D'Arcambal and Otille seemed completely oblivious of any
change. Their happiness overflowed. Philip thought of his last
supper at Churchill, with Eileen Brokaw and her father. Miss
Brokaw had acted strangely then, and had struggled to hide some
secret grief or excitement, as Jeanne was struggling now.

He was glad when the meal was finished, and the master of Fort o'
God rose from his seat. At D'Arcambal's movement his eyes caught
Jeanne's, and then he saw that Pierre was looking sharply at him.

"Jeanne owes you an apology--and an explanation, M'sieur Philip,"
said D'Arcambal, resting a hand upon Jeanne's head. "We are going
to retire, and she will initiate you into the fold of Fort o'
God."

Pierre and Otille followed him from the room. For the first time
in an hour Jeanne laughed frankly at Philip.

"There isn't much to explain, M'sieur Philip," she said, rising
from her seat. "You know pretty nearly all there is to know about
Fort o' God now. Only I am sure that I did not appear to value
your confidence very much--a little while ago. It must have seemed
ungrateful in me, indeed, to have told you so little about myself
and my home, after what you did for Pierre and me. But I have
father's permission now. It is the second time that he has ever
given it to me."

"And I don't want to hear," exclaimed Philip, bluntly. "I have
been more or less of a brute, Miss Jeanne. I know enough about
Fort o' God. It is a glorious place. You owe me nothing, and for
that reason--"

"But I insist," interrupted the girl. "Do you mean to say that you
do not care to listen, when this is the second time in my life
that I have had the opportunity of talking about my home? And the
first--didn't give me any pleasure. This will."

A shadow came into Jeanne's eyes. She motioned him to a seat
beside her in front of the fire. Her nearness, the touch of her
dress, the sweet perfume of her presence, thrilled him. He felt
that the moment was near when the whole world as he knew it was to
slip away from him, leaving him in a paradise, or a chaos of
despair. Jeanne looked up at the dueling pistols. The firelight
trembled in the soft folds of lace over her bosom; it glistened in
her hair, and lighted her face with a gentle glow.

"There isn't much to explain," she said again, in a voice so low
that it was hardly more than a whisper. "But what little there is
I want you to know, so that when you go away you will understand.
More than two hundred years ago a band of gentlemen adventurers
were sent over into this country by Prince Rupert to form the
Hudson's Bay Company. That is history, and you know more of it,
probably, than I. One of these men was Le Chevalier Grosellier.
One summer he came up the Churchill, and stopped at the great rock
on which we saw the sun setting to-night, and which was called the
Sun Rock by the Indians. He was struck by the beauty of the place,
and when he went back to France it was with the plan of returning
to build himself a chateau in the wilderness. Two or three years
later he did this, and called the place Fort o' God. For more than
a century, M'sieur, Fort o' God was a place of revel and pleasure
in the heart of this desolation. Early in the nineteenth century
it passed into the hands of a man by the name of D'Arcy, and it is
said that at one time it housed twenty gentlemen and as many
ladies of France for one whole season. Its history is obscure, and
mostly lost. But for a long time after D'Arcy came it was a place
of adventure, of pleasure, and of mystery, very little of which
remains to-day. Those are his pistols above the fire. He was
killed by one of them out there beside the big rock, in a quarrel
with one of his guests over a woman. We think--here--from letters
that we have found, that her name was Camille. There is a chest in
my room filled with linen that bears her name. This dress came
from that chest. I have to be careful of them, as they tear very
easily. After D'Arcy the place was almost forgotten and remained
so until nearly forty years ago when my father came into
possession of it. That, M'sieur, is the very simple story of Fort
o' God. Its old name is forgotten. It lives only with us. Others
know it as D'Arcambal House."

"Yes, I have heard of that," said Philip.

He waited for Jeanne, and saw that her fingers were nervously
twisting a bit of ribbon in her lap.

"Of course, that is uninteresting," she continued. "You can almost
guess the rest. We have lived here--alone. Not one of us has ever
felt the desire to leave this little world of ours. It is curious
--you may scarcely believe what I say--but it is true that we look
out upon your big world and laugh at it and dislike it. I guess--
that I have been taught to hate it--since I can remember."

There was a little tremble in Jeanne's voice, an instant's
quivering of her chin. Philip looked from her face into the fire,
and stared hard, choking back words which were ready to burst from
his lips. In place of them he said, with a touch of bitterness in
his voice:

"And I have grown to hate my world, Jeanne. It has compelled me to
hate it. That is why I spoke to you that night on the cliff at
Churchill."

"I have sometimes thought that I have been very wrong," said the
girl. "I have never seen this other world. I know nothing of it,
except as I have been taught. I have no right to hate it, and yet
I do. I have never wanted to see it. I have never cared to know
the people who lived in it. I wish that I could understand, but I
cannot; except that father has made for us, for Pierre and Otille
and me, this little world at Fort o' God, and has taught us to
fear the other. I know that there is no other man in the whole
world like my father, and that what he has done must be best. It
is his pride that we bring your world to our doors, but that we
never go to it; he says that we know more about that world than
the people who live there, which of course cannot be so. And so we
have grown up amid the old memories, the pictures, and the dead
romances of Fort o' God. We have taken pleasure in living as we
do--in making for ourselves our own little social codes, our
childish aristocracy, our make-believe world. It is the spirit of
Fort o' God that lives with us, and makes us content; the shadow-
faces of men and women who once filled these rooms with life and
pleasure, and whose memory seems to have passed into our keeping
alone. I know them all; many of their names, all of their faces. I
have a daguerreotype of Camille Poitiers, and she must have been
very beautiful. There are the tiniest slippers in the world in her
chest, and ribbons like those which are tied about the pistols.
There is a painting of D'Arcy in your room. It is the picture next
to the one that has its face turned to the wall."

She rose to her feet, and Philip stood beside her. There was a
mist in her eyes as she held out her hand to him.

"I--I--would like to have you--see that picture," she whispered.

Philip could not speak. He held the hand Jeanne had given him as
they passed through the long, dimly lighted halls. At the open
door to his room they stopped, and he could feel Jeanne trembling.

"You will tell me--the truth?" she begged, like a child. "You will
tell me what you think--of the picture?"

"Yes."

She went in ahead of him and turned the frame so that the face in
the picture smiled down upon them in all of its luring loveliness.
There was something pathetic in the girl's attitude now. She stood
under the picture, facing Philip, and there was a tense eagerness
in her eyes, a light that was almost supplication, a crying out of
her soul to him in a breathless moment that seemed hovering
between pain and joy. It was Jeanne, an older Jeanne, that looked
from out of the picture, smiling, inviting admiration, bewildering
hi her beauty; it was Jeanne, the child, waiting for him in flesh
and blood to speak, her eyes big and dark, her breath coming
quickly, her hands buried in the deep lace on her bosom. A low
word came to Philip's lips, and then he laughed softly. It was a
laugh, almost under his breath, which sweeps up now and then from
a soul in a joy--an emotion--which is unutterable in words. But to
Jeanne it was different. Her dark eyes grew hurt and wounded, two
great tears ran down her paling cheeks, and suddenly she buried
her face in her hands and with a sobbing cry turned from him, with
her head bowed under the smiling face above.

"And you--you hate it, too!" she sobbed. "They all hate it--
Pierre--father--all--all hate it. It must--it must be bad. They
hate her--every one--but me. And--I love her so!"

Her slender form shook with sobs. For a moment Philip stood like
one struck dumb. Then he sprang to her and caught her close in his
arms.

"Jeanne--Jeanne--listen," he cried. "To-night I looked at that
picture before I went to see your father, and I loved it because
it is like you. Jeanne, my darling, I love you--I love you--"

She was panting against his breast. He covered her face with
kisses. Her sweet lips were not turned from him, and there filled
her eyes a sudden light that made him almost sob in his happiness.

"I love you, I love you," he repeated, again and again, and he
could find no other words than those.

For an instant her arms clung about his shoulders, and then,
suddenly, they strained against him, and she tore herself free,
and, with a cry so pathetic that it seemed as though her heart had
broken in that moment, she fled from him, and out of the room.





XVIII


Philip stood where Jeanne had left him, his arms half reaching out
to the vacant door through which she had fled, his lips parted as
if to call her name, and yet motionless, dumb. A moment before he
was intoxicated by a joy that was almost madness. He had held
Jeanne in his arms; he had looked into her eyes, filled with
surrender under his caresses and his avowal of love. For a moment
he had possessed her, and now he was alone. The cry that had wrung
itself from her lips, breaking in upon his happiness like a blow,
still rang in his ears, and there was something in the exquisite
pain of it that left him in torment. Heart and soul, every drop of
blood in him, had leaped in the joy of that glorious moment, when
Jeanne's eyes and sweet lips had accepted his love, and her arms
had clung about his shoulders. Now these things had been struck
dead within him. He felt again the fierce pressure of Jeanne's
arms as she had thrust him away, he saw the fright and torture
that had leaped into her eyes as she sprang from him, as though
his touch had suddenly become a sacrilege. He lowered his arms
slowly, and went to the hall. It was empty. He heard no sound, and
closed the door.

It was so still that he could hear the excited throbbing of his
own heart. He looked at the picture again, and a strange fancy
impressed him with the idea that it was no longer smiling at him,
but that its eyes were turned to the door through which Jeanne had
disappeared. He moved his position, and the illusion was gone. It
was Jeanne looking down upon him again, an older and happier
Jeanne than the one whom he loved. For the first time he examined
it closely. In one corner of the canvas he found the artist's
name, Bourret, and after it the date, 1888. Could it be the
picture of Jeanne's mother? He told himself that it was
impossible, for Jeanne's mother had been found dead in the snow,
five years later than the date of the canvas, and Pierre, the
half-breed, had buried her somewhere out on the barren, so that
she was a mystery to all but him. Even the master of Fort o' God,
to whom he had brought the child, had never seen the woman upon
whose cold breast Pierre had found the little Jeanne.

With nervous hands he replaced the picture with its face to the
wall, and began to pace up and down the room, wondering if
D'Arcambal would send for him. He had hope of seeing Jeanne again
that night. He felt sure that she had gone to her room, and that
even D'Arcambal might not know that he was alone. In that event he
had a long night ahead of him, filled with hours of sleeplessness
and torment. He waited for three-quarters of an hour, and then the
idea came to him that he might discover some plausible excuse for
seeking out his host. He was about to act upon this mental
suggestion when he heard a low rustling in the hall, followed by a
distinct and yet timid knock. It was not a man's knock, and filled
with the hope that Jeanne had returned, Philip hastened to the
door and opened it.

He heard soft footsteps retreating rapidly down the hall, but the
lights were out, and he could see nothing. Something had fallen at
his feet, and he bent down to pick it up. The object was a small,
square envelope; and re-entering his room he saw his own name
written across it in Jeanne's delicate hand. His heart beat with
hope as he opened the note. What he read brought a gray pallor
into his face:

MONSIEUR PHILIP,--If you cannot forget what I have done, please at
least try to forgive me. No woman in the world could value your
love more than I, for circumstances have proven to me the strength
and honor of the man who gives it. And yet it is as impossible for
me to accept it as it would be for me to give up Fort o' God, my
father, or my life, though I cannot tell you why. And this, I
know, you will not ask. After what has happened to-night it will
be impossible for me to see you again, and I must ask you, as one
who values your friendship among the highest things in my life, to
leave Fort o' God. No one must know what has passed between us.
You will go--in the morning. And with you there will always be my
prayers.

JEANNE.

The paper dropped from between Philip's fingers and fell to the
floor. Three or four times in his life Philip had received blows
that had made him sick--physical blows. He felt now as though one
of these blows had descended upon him, turning things black before
his eyes. He staggered to the big chair and dropped into it,
staring at the bit of white paper on the floor. If one had spoken
to him he would not have heard. Gregson, in these moments, might
have laughed a little nervously, smoked innumerable cigarettes,
and laid plans for a continuance of the battle to-morrow. But
Philip was a fighter of men, and not of women. He had declared his
love, he had laid open his soul to Jeanne, and to a heart like his
own, simple in its language, boundless in its sincerity, this was
all that could be done. Jeanne's refusal of his love was the end--
for him. He accepted his fate without argument. In an instant he
would have fought ten men--a hundred, naked-handed, if such a
fight would have given him a chance of winning Jeanne; he would
have died, laughing, happy, if it had been in a struggle for her.
But Jeanne herself had dealt him the blow.

For a long time he sat motionless in the chair facing the picture
on the wall. Then he rose to his feet, picked up the note, and
went to one of the little square windows that looked out into the
night. The moon had risen, and the sky was full of stars. He knew
that he was looking into the north, for the pale shimmer of the
aurora was in his face. He saw the black edge of the spruce
forest; the barren stretched out, pale and ghostly, into the night
shadows.

He made an effort to open the window, but it was wedged tightly in
its heavy sill. He crossed the room, opened the door, and went
silently down the hall to the door through which Pierre had led
him a few hours before. It was not locked, and he passed out into
the night. The fresh air was like a tonic, and he walked swiftly
out into the moonlit spaces, until he found himself in the deep
shadow of the Sun Rock that towered like a sentinel giant above
his head. He made his way around its huge base, and then stopped,
close to where they had landed in the canoe. There was another
canoe drawn up beside Pierre's, and two figures stood out clear in
the moonlight.

One of these was a man, the other a woman, and as Philip stopped,
wondering at the scene, the man advanced to the woman and caught
her in his embrace. He heard a voice, low and expostulating, which
sounded like Otille's, and in spite of his own misery Philip
smiled at this other love which had found its way to Fort o' God.
He turned back softly, leaving the lovers as he had found them;
but he had scarce taken half a dozen steps when he heard other
steps, and saw that the girl had left her companion and was
hurrying toward him. He drew back close into the shadow of the
rock to avoid possible discovery, and the girl passed through the
moonlight almost within arm's reach of him. At that moment his
heart ceased to beat. He choked back the groaning cry that rose to
his lips. It was not Otille who passed him. It was Jeanne.

In another moment she was gone. The man had shoved his canoe into
the narrow stream, and was already lost in the gloom. Then, and
not until then, did the cry of torture fall from Philip. And as if
in echo to it he heard the sobbing break of another voice, and
stepping out into the moonlight he stood face to face with Pierre
Couchee.

It was Pierre who spoke first.

"I am sorry, M'sieur," he whispered, hoarsely. "I know that it has
broken your heart. And mine, too, is crushed."

Something in the half-breed's face, in the choking utterance of
his voice, struck Philip as new and strange. He had seen the eyes
of dying animals filled with the wild pain that glowed in
Pierre's, and suddenly he reached out and gripped the other's
hand, and they stood staring into each other's face. In that look,
the cold grip of their hands, the strife in their eyes, the bare
truth revealed itself.

"And you, too--you love her, Pierre," said Philip.

"Yes, I love her, M'sieur," replied Pierre, softly. "I love her,
not as a brother, but as a man whose heart is broken."

"Now--I understand," said Philip.

He dropped Pierre's hand, and his voice was cold and lifeless.

"I received a note--from her, asking me to leave Fort o' God in
the morning," he went on, looking from Pierre out beyond the rock
into the white barren. "I will go to-night."

"It is best," said Pierre.

"I have left nothing in Fort o' God, so there is no need of even
returning to my room," continued Philip. "Jeanne will understand,
but you must tell her father that a messenger came suddenly from
Blind Indian Lake, and that I thought it best to leave without
awakening him. "Will you guide me for a part of the distance,
Pierre?"

"I will go with you the whole way, M'sieur. It is only twenty
miles, ten by canoe, ten by land."

They said no more, but both went to the canoe, and were quickly
lost in the gloom into which the other canoe had disappeared a few
minutes ahead of them. They saw nothing of this canoe, and when
they came to the Churchill Pierre headed the birch-bark down-
stream. For two hours not a word passed between them. At the end
of that time the half-breed turned in to shore.

"We take the trail here, M'sieur," he explained.

He went on ahead, walking swiftly, and now and then when Philip
caught a glimpse of his face he saw in it a despair as great as
his own. The trail led along the backbone of a huge ridge, and
then twisted down into a broad plain; and across this they
traveled, one after the other, two moving, silent shadows in a
desolation that seemed without end. Beyond the plain there rose
another ridge, and half an hour after they had struck the top of
it Pierre halted, and pointed off into the ghostly world of light
and shadow that lay at their feet.

"Your camp is on the other side of this plain, M'sieur," he said.
"Do you recognize the country?"

"I have hunted along this ridge," replied Philip. "It is only
three miles from here, and I will strike a beaten trail half a
mile out yonder. A thousand thanks, Pierre."

He held out his hand.

"Good-by, M'sieur."

"Good-by, Pierre."

Their voices trembled. Their hands gripped hard. A choking lump
rose in Philip's throat, and Pierre turned away. He disappeared
slowly in the gray gloom, and Philip went down the side of the
mountain. From the plain below he looked back. For an instant he
saw Pierre drawn like a silhouette against the sky.

"Good-by, Pierre," he shouted.

"Good-by, M'sieur" came back faintly.

Light and silence dropped about them.





XIX


To be alone, even after the painful parting with Pierre, was in
one way a relief to Philip, for with the disappearance of the
lonely half-breed over the mountain there had gone from him the
last physical association that bound him to Jeanne and her people.
With Pierre at his side, Jeanne was still with him; but now that
Pierre was gone there came a change in him--one of those
unaccountable transmutations of the mind which make the passing of
yesterdays more like a short dream than a long and full reality.
He walked slowly over the plain, and, when he came to the trail
beaten by the hoofs of his own teams he followed it mechanically.
In his measurement of things now, it seemed only a few hours since
he had traveled over this trail on his way to Fort Churchill; it
might, have been that morning, or the morning before. The weeks of
his absence had passed with marvelous swiftness, now that he
looked back upon them. They seemed short and trivial. And yet he
knew that in those weeks he had lived more of his life than he had
ever lived before, or would ever live again. For a brief spell
life had been, filled with joy and hope--a promise of happiness
which a single moment in the shadow of the Sun Rock had destroyed
forever. He had seen Jeanne in another man's arms; he had read the
confirmation of his fears in Pierre's grief-distorted face, in the
strange tremble of his voice, in the words that he had spoken. He
was sorry for Pierre. He would have been glad if that other man
had been the lovable half-breed; if Jeanne, in the poetry of life
and love, had given herself to the one who had saved the spark of
life in her chilled little body years and years ago. And yet in
his own grief he unconsciously rejoiced that it was a man like
Pierre who suffered with him.

This thought of Pierre strengthened him, and he walked faster, and
breathed more deeply of the clear night air. He had lost in the
fight for Jeanne as he had lost in many other fights; but, after
all, there was another and bigger fight ahead of him, which he
would begin to-morrow. Thoughts of his men, of his camps, and of
this struggle through which he must pass to achieve success raised
him above his depression, and stirred his blood with a growing
exhilaration. And Jeanne--was she hopelessly lost to him? He dared
to ask himself the question half an hour after he had separated
from Pierre, and his mind flew back to the portrait-room where he
had told Jeanne of his love, and where for a moment he had seen in
her eyes and face the sweet surrender that had given him a glimpse
of his paradise. But what did the sudden change mean? And after
that--the scene in the starlight?

A quickening of his pulse was the answer to these questions.
Jeanne had told him there were only two men at Fort o' God, Pierre
and her father. Then who could be this third? A lover, whom she
met clandestinely? He shivered, and began loading his pipe as he
walked. He was certain that the master of Fort o' God did not know
of the tryst beyond the rock, and he was equally certain that the
girl was unaware of Pierre's knowledge of the meeting. Pierre had
remained hidden, like himself, and he had given Philip to
understand that it was not the first time he had looked upon the
meetings of Jeanne and the man they had seen from the shadow of
the rock. And yet, in spite of all evidence, he could not lose
faith in Jeanne.

Suddenly he saw something ahead of him which changed for a moment
the uncomfortable trend of his thoughts. It was a pale streak,
rising above the level of the trail, and stretching diagonally
across the plain to the east. With an exclamation of surprise
Philip hastened his steps, and a moment later stood among the
fresh workings of his men. When he had left for Churchill this
streak, which was the last stretch of road-bed between them and
the surveyed line of the Hudson's Bay Railway, had ended two miles
to the south and west. In a little over a month MacDougall had
pushed it on the trail, and well across it in the direction of
Gray Beaver Lake. In that time he had accomplished a work which
Philip had not thought possible to achieve that autumn. He had
figured that the heavy snows of winter would cut them off at the
trail. And MacDougall was beyond the trail, with three weeks to
spare!

Something rose up in his blood, warming him with an elation which
sent him walking swiftly toward the end of the road-bed. A quarter
of a mile out on the plain he came to the working end. About him
were scattered half a dozen big scoop shovels and piles of working
tools. The embers of a huge log fire still glowed where dinner had
been cooked for the men. Philip stood for a few moments, looking
off into the distance. Another mile and a half out there was the
Gray Beaver, and from the Gray Beaver there lay the unbroken
waterway to the point of their conjunction with the railway coming
up from the south. A sudden idea occurred to Philip. If MacDougall
had built two and a quarter miles of road-bed in five weeks they
could surely complete this other mile and a half before winter
stopped them. In that event, they would have fifteen miles of
road, linking seven lakes, which would give them a splendid winter
trail for men, teams, and dogs to the Gray Beaver. And from the
Gray Beaver they would have smooth ice for twenty miles, to the
new road. He had not planned to begin fishing operations until
spring, but he could see no reason now why they should not
commence that winter, setting their nets through the ice. At
Lobstick Creek, where the new road would reach them sometime in
April or May, they could freeze their fish and keep them in
storage. Five hundred tons in stock, and perhaps a thousand, would
not be a bad beginning. It would mean from forty to eighty
thousand dollars, a half of which could be paid out in dividends.

He turned back, whistling softly. There was new life in him,
burning for action. He was eager to see MacDougall, and he hoped
that Brokaw would not be long in reaching Blind Indian Lake.
Before he reached the trail he was planning the accommodation
stations, where men and animals could find shelter. There would be
one on the shore of the Gray Beaver, and from there he would build
them at regular intervals of five miles on the ice.

He had come to the trail, and was about to turn in the direction
of the camp, when he saw a shadowy figure making its way slowly
across the plain which he had traversed half an hour before. The
manner in which this person was following in his footsteps,
apparently with extreme caution, caused Philip to move quickly
behind the embankment of the road-bed. Two or three minutes later
a man crossed into view. Philip could not see his face distinctly,
but by the tired droop of the stranger's shoulders and his
shuffling walk he guessed that what he had first taken for caution
was in reality the tedious progress of a man nearing exhaustion.
He wondered how he had missed him in his own journey over the
trail from the ridge mountains, for he had made twice the progress
of the stranger, and must surely have passed him somewhere within
the last mile or so. The fact that the man had come from the
direction of Fort o' God, that he was exhausted, and that he had
evidently concealed himself a little way back to avoid discovery,
led Philip to cut out diagonally across the plain so that he could
follow him and keep him in sight without being observed. Twice in
the next mile the nocturnal traveler stopped to rest, but no
sooner had he reached the first scattered shacks of the camp than
he quickened his steps, darting quickly among the shadows, and
then stopped at last before the door of a small log cabin within a
pistol-shot of Philip's own headquarters. The cabin was newly
built, and Philip gave a low whistle of surprise as he noted its
location. He had, to a certain degree, isolated his own camp home,
building it a couple of hundred yards back from the shore of the
lake, where most of the other cabins were erected. This new cabin
was still a hundred yards farther back, half hidden in a growth of
spruce. He heard the click of a key in a lock and the opening and
closing of a door. A moment later a light flared dimly against a
curtained window.

Philip hurried across the open to the cabin occupied by himself
and MacDougall, the engineer. He tried the door, but it was
barred. Then he knocked loudly, and continued knocking until a
light appeared within. He heard the Scotchman's voice, close to
the door.

"Who's there?" it demanded.

"None of your business!" retorted Philip, falling into the error
of a joke at the welcome sound of MacDougall's voice. "Open up!"

A bar slipped within. The door opened slowly. Philip thrust
himself against it and entered. In the pale light of the lamp he
was confronted by the red face of MacDougall, and a pair of little
eyes that gleamed menacingly. And on a line with MacDougall's face
was an ugly-looking revolver.

Philip stopped with a sudden uncomfortable thrill. MacDougall
lowered his gun.

"Lord preserve us, but that's the time you almost drew a
perforation!" he exclaimed. "It isn't safe to cut-up in these
diggings any more--not with Sandy MacDougall!"

He held out a hand with a relieved laugh, and the two men shook in
a grip that made their fingers ache.

"Is this the way you welcome all of your friends, Mac?"

MacDougall shrugged his shoulders and laid his gun on a table in
the center of the room.

"Can't say that I've got a friend left in camp," he said, with a
curious grimace. "What in thunder do you mean, Phil? I've tried to
reason something out of it, but I can't!"

Philip was hanging up his cap and coat on one of a number of
wooden pegs driven into the long wall. He turned quickly.

"Reason something out of what?" he said.

"Your instructions from Churchill," replied MacDougall, picking up
a big, black-bowled pipe from the table.

Philip sat down with a restful sigh, crossed his legs, loaded his
pipe, and lighted it.

"Thought I made myself lucid enough, even for a Scotchman, Sandy,"
he said. "I learned at Churchill that the big fight is going to be
pulled off mighty soon. It's about time for the fireworks. So I
told you to put the sub-camps in fighting shape, and arm every
responsible man in this camp. There's going to be a whole lot of
gun-work before you're many days older. Great Scott, man, don't
you understand NOW? What's the matter?"

MacDougall was staring at him as if struck dumb.

"You told me--to arm--the camps?" he gasped.

"Yes, I sent you full instructions two weeks ago."

"MacDougall tapped his forehead suspiciously with a stubby
forefinger.

"You're mad--or trying to pull off a poor brand of joke!" he
exclaimed. "If you're dreaming, come out of it. Look here, Phil,"
he cried, a little heatedly, "I've been having a hell of a time
since you left the camp, and I want to talk seriously."

It was Philip who stared now. He fairly thrust himself upon the
engineer.

"Do you mean to say you didn't get my letter telling you to put
the camps in fighting shape?"

"No, I didn't get it," said MacDougall. "But I got the other."

"There was no other!"

MacDougall jumped to his feet, darted to his bunk, and came back a
moment later with a letter. He thrust it almost fiercely into
Philip's hands. A sweat broke out upon his face as he saw its
effect upon his companion. Philip's face was deadly pale when he
looked up from the letter.

"My God! you haven't done this?" he gasped.

"What else could I do?" demanded MacDougall. "It's down there in
black and white, isn't it? It charges me to outfit six prospecting
parties of ten men each, arm every man with a rifle and revolver,
victual them for two months, and send them to the points named
there. That letter came ten days ago, and the last party, under
Tom Billinger, has been gone a week. You told me to send your very
best men, and I have. It has fairly stripped the camp of the men
we depended upon, and there are hardly enough guns left to kill
meat with."

"I didn't write this letter," said Philip, looking hard at
MacDougall. "The signature is a fraud. The letter which I sent to
you, revealing my discoveries at Churchill, has been intercepted
and replaced by this. Do you know what it means?"

MacDougall was speechless. His square jaw was set like an iron
clamp, his heavy hands doubled into knots on his knees.

"It means--fight," continued Philip. "To-night--to-morrow--at any
moment now. I can't guess why the blow hasn't fallen before this."

He quickly related to MacDougall the chief facts he had gathered
at Fort Churchill. When he had finished, the young Scotchman
reached over to the table, seized his revolver, and held the butt
end of it out to Philip.

"Pump me full of lead--for God's sake, do, Phil," he pleaded.

Philip laughed, and gripped his hand.

"Not while I need a few fighters like yourself, Sandy," he
objected. "We're on to the game in time. By to-morrow morning
we'll be prepared for the war. We haven't an hour--perhaps not a
minute--to lose. How many men can you get hold of to-night whom we
can depend upon to fight?"

"Ten or a dozen, no more. The road gang that we were expecting up
from the Grand Trunk Pacific came three days after you started for
Churchill--twenty-eight of 'em. They're a tough-looking outfit,
but devilish good workers. I believe you could HIRE that gang to
do anything. They won't take a word from me. It's all up to
Thorpe, the foreman who brought 'em up, and they won't obey an
order unless it comes through him. Thorpe could get them to fight,
but they haven't anything to fight with, except a few knives. I've
got eight guns left, and I can scrape up eight men who'll handle
them for the glory of it. Thorpe's gang would be mighty handy in
close quarters, if it came to that."

MacDougall moved restlessly, and ran a hand through his tawny
hair.

"I almost wish we hadn't invited that bunch up here," he added.
"They look to me like a lot of dollar thugs, but they work like
horses. Never saw such men with the shovel and pick. And fight?
They've cleaned up on a half of the men in camp. If we can get
Thorpe--"

"We'll see him to-night," interrupted Philip. "Or to be correct,
this morning. It's one o'clock. How long will it take to round up
our best men?"

"Half an hour," said MacDougall, promptly, jumping to his feet.
"There are Roberts, Henshaw, Tom Cassidy, Lecault, the Frenchman,
and the two St. Pierre brothers. They're all crack gun-men. Give
'em each an automatic and they're worth twenty ordinary men."

A few moments later MacDougall extinguished the light, and the two
men left the cabin. Philip drew his companion's attention to the
dimly lighted window of the cabin to which he had followed the
stranger a short time before,

"That's Thorpe's," said the young engineer. "I haven't seen him
since morning. Guess he must be up."

"We'll sound him first," said Philip, starting off.

At MacDougall's knock there was a moment's silence inside, then
heavy footsteps, and the door was flung open. Sandy entered,
followed by Philip. Thorpe stepped back. He was of medium height,
yet so athletically built that he gave the impression of being two
inches taller than he actually was. He was smooth-shaven, and his
hair and eyes were black. His whole appearance was that of a
person infinitely superior to what Philip had expected to find in
the gang-foreman. His first words, and the manner in which they
were spoken, added to this impression.

"Good evening, gentlemen."

"Good morning," replied MacDougall, nodding toward Philip. "This
is Mr. Whittemore, Thorpe. We saw your light, and thought you
wouldn't mind a call."

Philip and Thorpe shook hands.

"Just in time to have a cup of coffee," invited Thorpe,
pleasantly, motioning toward a steaming pot on the stove. "I just
got in from a long hike out over the new road-bed. Been looking
the ground over along the north shore of the Gray Beaver, and was
so interested that I didn't start for home until dark. Won't you
draw up, gentlemen? There are mighty few who can beat me at making
coffee."

MacDougall had noted a sudden change in Philip's face, and as
Thorpe hastened to lift the over-boiling pot from the stove he saw
his chief make a quick movement toward a small table, and pick up
an object which looked like a bit of cloth. In an instant Philip
had hidden it in the palm of his hand. A flush leaped into his
cheeks. A strange fire burned in his eyes when Thorpe turned.

"I'm afraid we can't accept your hospitality," he said. "I'm
tired, and want to get to bed. In passing, however, I couldn't
refrain from dropping in to compliment you on the remarkable work
your men are doing out on the plain. It's splendid."

"They're good men," said Thorpe, quietly. "Pretty wild, but good
workers."

He followed them to the door. Outside, Philip's voice trembled
when he spoke to MacDougall.

"You go for the others, and bring them to the office, Sandy," he
said. "I said nothing to Thorpe because I have no confidence in
liars, and Thorpe is a liar. He was not out to the Gray Beaver to-
day; for I saw him when he came in--from the opposite direction.
He is a liar, and he will bear watching. Mind that, Sandy. Keep
your eyes on this man Thorpe. And keep your eyes on his gang.
Hustle the others over to the office as soon as you can."

They separated, and Philip returned to the cabin which they had
left a few minutes before. He relighted the lamp, and with a sharp
gasp in his breath held out before his eyes the object which he
had taken from Thorpe's table. He knew now why Thorpe had come
from over the mountains that night, why he was exhausted, and why
he had lied. He clasped his head between his hands, scarcely
believing the evidence of his eyes. A deeper breath, almost a
moan, fell from his twisted lips. For he had discovered that
Thorpe, the gang-foreman, was Jeanne's lover. In his hand he held
the dainty handkerchief, embroidered in blue, which he had seen in
Jeanne's possession earlier that evening--crumpled and discolored,
still damp with her tears!





XX


For many minutes Philip did not move, or look from the bit of damp
fabric which be held between his fingers. His heart was chilled.
He felt sick. Each moment added to the emotion which was growing
in him, an emotion which was a composite of disgust and of
anguish. Jeanne--Thorpe! An eternity of difference seemed to lie
between those two--Jeanne, with her tender beauty, her sweet life,
her idyllic dreams, and Thorpe, the gang-driver! In his own soul
he had made a shrine for Jeanne, and from his knees he had looked
up at her, filled with the knowledge of his own unworthiness. He
had worshiped her, as Dante might have worshiped Beatrice. To him
she was the culmination of all that was sweet and lovable in
woman, transcendently above him. And from this love, this worship
of his, she had gone that very night to Thorpe, the gang-man. He
shivered. Going to the stove he thrust in a handful of paper,
dropped the handkerchief in with it, and set the whole on fire.

A few moments later the door opened and MacDougall came in. He was
followed by the two swarthy-faced St. Pierres, the camp huntsmen.
Philip shook hands with them, and they passed after the engineer
through a narrow door leading into a room which was known as the
camp office, Cassidy, Henshaw, and the others followed within the
next ten minutes. There was not a man among them whose eyes
faltered when Philip put up his proposition to them. As briefly as
possible he told them a part of what he had previously revealed to
MacDougall, and frankly conceded that the preservation of property
and life in the camp depended almost entirely upon them.

"You're not the sort of men to demand pay in a pinch like this,"
he finished, "and that's just the reason I've confidence enough in
you to ask for your support. There are fifty men in camp whom we
could hire to fight, but I don't want hired fighters. I don't want
men who will run at the crack of a few rifles, but men who are
willing to die with their boots on. I won't offer you money for
this, because I know you too well. But from this hour on you're
going to be a part of the Great Northern Fish and Development
Company, and as soon as the certificates can be signed I'm going
to turn over a hundred shares of stock to each of you. Remember
that this isn't pay. It's simply a selfish scheme of mine to make
you a part of the company. There are eight of us. Give us each an
automatic and I'll wager that there isn't a combination in this
neck of the woods strong enough to do us up."

In the pale light of the two oil-lamps the men's faces glowed with
enthusiasm. Cassidy was the first to grip Philip's hand in a
pledge of fealty.

"When hell freezes over, we're licked," he said. "Where's me
automatic?"

MacDougall brought in the guns and ammunition.

"In the morning we will begin the erection of a new building close
to this one," said Philip. "There is no reason for the building,
but that will give me an excuse for keeping you men together on
one job, within fifty feet of your guns, which we can keep in this
room. Only four men need work at a shift, and I'll put Cassidy in
charge of the operations, if that is satisfactory to the others.
We'll have a couple of new bunks put in here so that four men can
stay with MacDougall and me every night. The other four, who are
not on the working shift, can hunt not far from the camp, and keep
their eyes peeled. Does that look good?"

"Can't be beat," said Henshaw, throwing open the breech of his
gun. "Shall we load?"

"Yes."

The room became ominous with the metallic click of loaded
cartridge clips and the hard snap of released chambers.

Five minutes later Philip stood alone with MacDougall. The loaded
rifles, each with a filled cartridge belt hanging over the muzzle,
were arranged in a row along one of the walls.

"I'll stake everything I've got on those men," he exclaimed. "Mac,
did it ever strike you that when you want REAL men you ought to
come north for them? Every one of those fellows is a northerner,
except Cassidy, and he's a fighter by birth. They'll die before
they go back on their word."

MacDougall rubbed his hands and laughed softly.

"What next, Phil?"

"We must send the swiftest man you've got in camp after Billinger,
and get word to the other parties you sent out as quickly as we
can. They'll probably get in too late. Billinger may arrive in
time."

"He's been gone a week. It's doubtful if we can get him back
within three," said MacDougall. "I'll send St. Pierre's cousin,
that young Crow Feather, after him as soon as he can get a pack
ready. You'd better go to bed, Phil. You look like a dead man."

Philip was not sure that he could sleep, notwithstanding the
physical strain he had been under during the past twenty-four
hours. He was filled with a nervous desire for continued action.
Only action kept him from thinking of Jeanne and Thorpe. After
MacDougall had gone to stir up young Crow Feather he undressed and
stretched out in his bunk, hoping that the Scotchman would soon
return. Not until he closed his eyes did he realize how tired he
was. MacDougall came in an hour later, and Philip was asleep. It
was nine o'clock when he awoke. He went to the cook's shanty, ate
a hot breakfast of griddle-cakes and bacon, drank a pint of strong
coffee, and hunted up MacDougall. Sandy was just coming from
Thorpe's house.

"He's a queer guinea, that Thorpe," said the engineer, after their
first greeting. "He doesn't pretend to do a pound's work. Notice
his hands when you see him again, Phil. They look as though he had
been drumming a piano all his life. But love o' mighty, how he
does make the OTHERS work. You want to go over and see his gang
throw dirt."

"That's where I'm going," said Philip. "Is Thorpe at home?"

"Just leaving. There he is now!"

At MacDougall's whistle Thorpe turned and waited for Philip.

"Goin' over?" he asked, pleasantly, when Philip came up.

"Yes. I want to see how your men work without a leader," replied
Philip. He paused for a moment to light his pipe, and pointed to a
group of men down on the lake shore. "See that gang?" he asked.
"They're building a scow. Take away their foreman and they
wouldn't be worth their grub. They're men we brought up from
Winnipeg."

Thorpe was rolling a cigarette. Under his arm he held a pair of
light gloves.

"Mine are different," he laughed, quietly.

"I know that," rejoined Philip, watching the skill of his long
white fingers. "That's why I want to see them in action, when
you're away."

"My policy is to know to a cubic foot what a certain number of men
are capable of doing in a certain time," explained Thorpe, as they
walked toward the plain. "My next move is to secure the men who
will achieve the result, whether I am present or not. That done,
my work is done. Simple, isn't it?"

There was something likable about Thorpe. Even in his present mood
Philip could not but concede that. He was surprised in Thorpe, in
more ways than one. His voice was low, and filled with a certain
companionable quality that gave one confidence in him immediately.
He was apparently a man of education and of some little culture,
in spite of his vocation, which usually possesses a vocabulary of
its own as hard as rock. But Philip's greatest surprise came when
he regarded Thorpe's personal appearance. He judged that he was
past forty, perhaps forty-five, and the thought made him shudder
inwardly. He was twice--almost three times--as old as Jeanne. And
yet there was about him something irresistibly attractive, a
fascination which had its influence upon Philip himself. His nails
dug into tie flesh of his hands when he thought of this man--and
Jeanne.

Thorpe's gang was hard at work when they came to the end of the
rock-bed. Scarcely a man seemed to take notice when he appeared.
There was one exception, a wiry, red-faced little man who raised a
hand to his cap when he saw the foreman.

"That's the sub-foreman," explained Thorpe. "He answers to me."
The little man had given a signal, and Thorpe added, "Excuse me
for a moment. He's got something on his mind."

He drew a few steps aside, and Philip walked along the line of
laboring-men. He grinned and nodded to them, one after another.
MacDougall was right. They were the toughest lot of men he had
ever seen in one gang.

Loud voices turned him about, and he saw that Thorpe and the sub-
foreman had approached a huge, heavy-shouldered man, with whom
they seemed to be in serious altercation. Two or three of the
workmen had drawn near, and Thorpe's voice rang out clear and
vibrant.

"You'll do that, Blake, or you'll shoulder your kit back home. And
what goes with you goes with your clique. I know your kind, and
you can't worry me. Take that pick and dig--or hike. There's no
two ways about it."

Philip could not hear what the big man said, but suddenly Thorpe's
fist shot out and struck him fairly on the jaw. In another instant
Thorpe had jumped back, and was facing half a dozen angry,
threatening men. He had drawn a revolver, and his white teeth
gleamed in a cool and menacing smile.

"Think it over, boys," he said, quietly. "And if you're not
satisfied come in and draw your pay this noon. We'll furnish you
with outfits and plenty of grub if you don't like the work up
here. I don't care to hold men like you to your contracts."

He came to meet Philip, as though nothing unusual had happened.

"That will delay the completion of our work for a week at least,"
he said, as he thrust his revolver into a holster hidden under his
coat. "I've been expecting trouble with Blake and four or five of
his pals for some time. I'm glad it's over. Blake threatens a
strike unless I give him a sub-foremanship and increase the men's
wages from six to ten dollars a day. Think of it. A strike--up
here! It would be the beginning of history, wouldn't it?"

He laughed softly, and Philip laughed from sheer admiration of the
man's courage.

"You think they'll go?" he asked, anxiously.

"I'm sure of it," replied Thorpe. "It's the best thing that can
happen."

An hour later Philip was back in camp. He did not see Thorpe again
until after dinner, and then the gang-foreman hunted him up. His
face wore a worried look.

"It's a little worse than I expected," he said. "Blake and eight
others came in for their pay and outfits this noon. I didn't think
that more than three or four would have the nerve to quit."

"I'll furnish you with men to take their places," said Philip.

"There's the hitch," replied Thorpe, rolling a cigarette. "I want
my men to work by themselves. Put half a dozen of your amateur
road-men among them and it will mean twenty per cent. less work
done, and perhaps trouble. They're a tough lot. I concede that.
I've thought of a way to offset the loss of Blake and the others.
We can set a gang of your men at work over at Gray Beaver Lake,
and they can build up to meet us."

Philip saw MacDougall soon after his short talk with Thorpe. The
engineer did not disguise his pleasure at the turn which affairs
had taken.

"I'm glad they're going," he declared. "If there's to be trouble
I'll feel easier with that bunch out of camp. I'd give my next
month's salary if Thorpe would take his whole outfit back where
they came from. They're doing business with the road-bed all
right, but I don't like the idea of having 'em around when there
are throats to be cut, one side or t'other."

Philip did not see Thorpe again that day. He selected his men for
the Gray Beaver work, and in the afternoon despatched a messenger
over the Fort Churchill route to meet Brokaw. He was confident
that Brokaw and his daughter would show up during the next few
days, but at the same time he instructed the messenger to go to
Churchill if he should not meet them on the way. Other men he sent
to recall the prospecting parties outfitted by MacDougall. Early
in the evening the St. Pierres, Lecault, and Henshaw joined him
for a few minutes in the office. During the day the four had done
scout work five miles on all sides of the camp. Lecault had shot a
moose three miles to the south, and had hung up the meat. One of
the St. Pierres saw Blake and his gang on the way to the
Churchill. Beyond these two incidents they brought in no news. A
little later MacDougall brought in two other men whom he could
trust, and armed them with muzzle-loaders. They were the two last
guns in the camp.

With ten men constantly prepared for attack, Philip began to feel
that he had the situation well in hand. It would be practically
impossible for his enemies to surprise the camp, and after their
first day's scout duty the men on the trail would always be within
sound of rifle-shots, even if they did not discover the advance of
an attacking force in time to beat them to camp. In the event of
one making such a discovery he was to signal the others by a
series of shots, such as one might fire at a running moose.

Philip found it almost impossible to fight back his thoughts of
Jeanne. During the two or three days that followed the departure
of Blake he did not allow himself an hour's rest from early dawn
until late at night. Each night he went to bed exhausted, with the
hope that sleep would bury his grief. The struggle wore upon him,
and the faithful MacDougall began to note the change in his
comrade's face. The fourth day Thorpe disappeared and did not show
up again until the following morning. Every hour of his absence
was like the stab of a knife in Philip's heart, for he knew that
the gang-foreman had gone to see Jeanne. Three days later the
visit was repeated, and that night MacDougall found Philip in a
fever.

"You're overdoing," he told him. "You're not in bed five hours out
of the twenty-four. Cut it out, or you'll be in the hospital
instead of in the fighting line when the big show comes to town."

Days of mental agony and of physical pain followed. Neither Philip
nor MacDougall could understand the mysterious lack of
developments. They had expected attack before this, and yet
ceaseless scout work brought in no evidence of an approaching
crisis. Neither could they understand the growing disaffection
among Thorpe's men. The numerical strength of the gang dwindled
from nineteen down to fifteen, from fifteen to twelve. At last
Thorpe voluntarily asked Philip to cut his salary in two, because
he could not hold his men. On that same day the little sub-foreman
and two others left him, leaving only nine men at work. The delay
in Brokaw's arrival was another puzzle to Philip. Two weeks
passed, and in that time Thorpe left camp three times. On the
fifteenth day the Fort Churchill messenger returned. He was
astounded when he found that Brokaw was not in camp, and brought
amazing news. Brokaw and his daughter had departed from Fort
Churchill two days after Pierre had followed Jeanne and Philip.
They had gone in two canoes, up the Churchill. He had seen no
signs of them anywhere along the route.

No sooner had he received the news than Philip sent the messenger
after MacDougall. The Scotchman's red face stared at him blankly
when he told him what had happened.

"That's their first move in the real fight," said Philip, with a
hard ring in his voice. "They've got Brokaw. Keep your men close
from this hour on, Sandy. Hereafter let five of them sleep in our
bunks during the day, and keep them awake during the night."

Five days passed without a sign of an enemy.

About eight o'clock on the night of the sixth MacDougall came into
the office, where Philip was alone. The young Scotchman's usually
florid face was white. He dropped a curse as he grasped the back
of a chair with both hands. It was the third or fourth time that
Philip had heard MacDougall swear.

"Damn that Thorpe!" he cried, in a low voice.

"What's up?" asked Philip, his muscles tightening.

MacDougall viciously beat the ash from the bowl of his pipe.

"I didn't want to worry you about Thorpe, so I've kept quiet about
some things," he growled. "Thorpe brought up a load of whisky with
him. I knew it was against the law you've set down for this camp,
but I figured you were having trouble enough without getting you
into a mix-up with him, so I didn't say anything. But this other--
is damnable! Twice he's had a woman sneak in to visit him. She's
there again to-night!"

A choking, gripping sensation rose in Philip's throat. MacDougall
was not looking, and did not see the convulsive twitching of the
other's face, or the terrible light that shot for an instant into
his eyes.

"A woman--Mac--"

"A YOUNG woman," said MacDougall, with emphasis. "I don't know who
she is, but I do know that she hasn't a right there or she
wouldn't sneak in like a thief. I'm going to be blunt--damned
blunt. I think she's one of the other men's wives. There are half
a dozen in camp."

"Haven't you ever looked--to see if you could recognize her?"

"Haven't had the chance," said MacDougall. "She's been wrapped up
both times, and as it was none of my business I didn't lay in
wait. But now--it's up to you!"

Philip rose slowly. He felt cold. He put on his coat and cap, and
buckled on his revolver. His face was deadly white when he turned
to MacDougall.

"She is over there to-night?"

"Sneaked in not half an hour ago, I saw her come out of the edge
of the spruce."

"From the trail that leads out over the plain?"

"Yes."

Philip walked to the door.

"I'm going over to call on Thorpe," he said, quietly. "I may not
be back for some time, Sandy."

In the deep shadows outside he stood gazing at the light in
Thorpe's cabin. Then he walked slowly toward the spruce. He did
not go to the door, but leaned with his back against the building,
near one of the windows. The first shuddering sickness had gone
from him. His temples throbbed. At the sound of a voice inside
which was Thorpe's the chill in his blood turned to fire. The
terrible fear that had fallen upon him at MacDougall's words held
him motionless, and his brain worked upon but one idea--one
determination. If it was Jeanne who came in this way, he would
kill Thorpe. If it was another woman, he would give Thorpe that
night to get out of the country. He waited. He heard the gang-
man's voice frequently, once in a loud, half-mocking laugh. Twice
he heard a lower voice--a woman's. For an hour he watched. He
walked back and forth in the gloom of the spruce, and waited
another hour. Then the light went out, and he slipped back to the
corner of the cabin.

After a moment the door opened, and a hooded figure came out, and
walked rapidly toward the trail that buried itself amid the
spruce. Philip ran around the cabin and followed. There was a
little open beyond the first fringe of spruce, and in this he ran
up silently from behind and overtook the one he was pursuing. As
his hand fell upon her arm the woman turned upon him with a
frightened cry. Philip's hand dropped. He took a step back.

"My God! Jeanne--it is you!"

His voice was husky, like a choking man's. For an instant Jeanne's
white, terrified face met his own. And then, without a word to
him, she fled swiftly down the trail.

Philip made no effort to follow. For two or three minutes he stood
like a man turned suddenly into hewn rock, staring with unseeing
eyes into the gloom where Jeanne had disappeared. Then he walked
back to the edge of the spruce. There he drew his revolver, and
cocked it. The starlight revealed a madness in his face as he
approached Thorpe's cabin. He was smiling, but it was such a smile
as presages death; a smile as implacable as fate itself.





XXI


As Philip approached the cabin he saw a figure stealing away
through the gloom. His first thought was that he had returned a
minute too late to wreak his vengeance upon the gang-foreman in
his own home, and he quickened his steps in pursuit. The man ahead
of him was cutting direct for the camp supply-house, which was the
nightly rendezvous of those who wished to play cards or exchange
camp gossip. The supply-house, aglow with light, was not more than
two hundred yards from Thorpe's, and Philip saw that if he dealt
out the justice he contemplated he had not a moment to lose. He
began to run, so quickly that he approached within a dozen paces
of the man he was pursuing without being heard. It was not until
then that he made a discovery which stopped him. The man ahead was
not Thorpe. Suddenly, looking beyond him, he saw a second figure
pass slowly through the lighted door of the supply-house. Even at
that distance he recognized the gang-foreman. He thrust his
revolver under his coat and fell a little farther behind the man
he had mistaken for Thorpe so that when the latter passed within
the small circle of light that came from the supply-house windows
he was fifty instead of a dozen paces away. Something in the
other's manner, something strangely and potently familiar in his
slim, lithe form, in the quick, half-running movement of his body,
drew a sharp breath from Philip. He was on the point of calling a
name, but it died on his lips. A moment more and the man passed
through the door. Philip was certain that it was Pierre Couchee
who had followed Thorpe.

He was filled with a sudden fear as he ran toward the store. He
had scarcely crossed the threshold when a glance showed him Thorpe
leaning upon a narrow counter, and Pierre close beside him. He saw
that the half-breed was speaking, and Thorpe drew himself erect.
Then, as quick as a flash, two things happened. Thorpe's hand went
to his belt, Pierre's sent a lightning gleam of steel back over
his shoulder. The terrible drive of the knife and the explosion of
Thorpe's revolver came in the same instant. Thorpe crumpled back
over the counter, clutching at his breast. Pierre turned about,
staggering, and saw Philip. His eyes lighted up, and with a
moaning cry he stretched out his arms as Philip sprang to him.
Above the sudden tumult of men's feet and excited voices he gasped
out Jeanne's name. Half a dozen men had crowded about them.
Through the ring burst MacDougall, a revolver in his hand. Pierce
had become a dead weight in Philip's arms.

"Help me over to the cabin with him, Mac," he said. He looked
around among the men. It struck him as curious, even then, that he
saw none of Thorpe's gang. "Is Thorpe done for?" he asked.

"He's dead," replied some one.

With an effort Pierre opened his eyes.

"Dead!" he breathed, and in that one word there was a tremble of
joy and triumph.

"Take Thorpe over to his cabin," commanded Philip, as he and
MacDougall lifted Pierre between them. "I will answer for this
man."

They could hear Pierre's sobbing breath as they hurried across the
open. They laid him on Philip's bunk and Pierre opened his eyes
again. He looked at Philip.

"M'sieur," he whispered, "tell me--quick--if I must die!"

MacDougall had studied medicine and surgery before engineering,
and took the place of camp physician. Philip drew back while he
ripped open the half-breed's garments and bared his breast. Then
he darted to his bunk for the satchel in which he kept his
bandages and medicines, throwing off his coat as he went. Philip
bent over Pierre. Blood was oozing slowly from the wounded man's
right breast. Over his heart Philip noticed a blood-stained
locket, fastened by a babiche string about his neck.

Pierre's hands groped eagerly for Philip's.

"M'sieur--you will tell me--if I must die?" he pleaded. "There are
things you must know--about Jeanne--if I go. It will not hurt. I
am not afraid. You will tell me--"

"Yes," said Philip.

He could scarcely speak, and while MacDougall was at work stood so
that Pierre could not see his face. There was a sobbing note in
Pierre's breath, and he knew what it meant. He had heard that same
sound more than once when he had shot moose and caribou through
the lungs. Five minutes later MacDougall straightened himself. He
had done all that he could. Philip followed him to the back part
of the room. Almost without sound his lips framed the words, "Will
he die?"

"Yes," said MacDougall. "There is no hope. He may last until
morning."

Philip took a stool and sat down beside Pierre. There was no fear
in the wounded man's face. His eyes were clear. His voice was a
little stronger.

"I will die, M'sieur," he said, calmly.

"I am afraid so, Pierre."

Pierre's damp fingers closed about his own. His eyes shone softly,
and he smiled.

"It is best," he said, "and I am glad. I feel quite well. I will
live for some time?"

"Perhaps for a few hours, Pierre."

"God is good to me," breathed Pierre, devoutly. "I thank Him. Are
we alone?"

"Do you wish to be alone?"

"Yes."

Philip motioned to MacDougall, who went into the little office
room.

"I will die," whispered Pierre, softly, as though he were
achieving a triumph. "And everything would die with me, M'sieur,
if I did not know that you love Jeanne, and that you will care for
her when I am gone. M'sieur, I have told you that I love her. I
have worshiped her, next to my God. I die happy, knowing that I am
dying for her. If I had lived I would have suffered, for I love
alone. She does not dream that my love is different from hers, for
I have never told her. It would have given her pain. And you will
never let her know. As Our Dear Lady is my witness, M'sieur, she
has loved but one man, and that man is you."

Pierre gave a great breath. A warm flood seemed suddenly to engulf
Philip. Did he hear right? Could he believe? He fell upon his
knees beside Pierre and brushed his dark hair back from his face.

"Yes, I love her," he said, softly. "But I did not know that she
loved me."

"It is not strange," said Pierre, looking straight into his eyes.
"But you will understand--now--M'sieur. I seem to have strength,
and I will tell you all--from the beginning. Perhaps I have done
wrong. You will know--soon. You remember Jeanne told you the story
of the baby--of the woman frozen in the snow. That was the
beginning of the long fight--for me. This--what I am about to tell
you--will be sacred to you, M'sieur?"

"As my life," said Philip.

Pierre was silent for a few moments. He seemed to be gathering his
thoughts, so that he could tell in few words the tragedy of years.
Two brilliant spots burned in his cheeks, and the hand which
Philip held was hot.

"Years ago--twenty, almost--there came a man to Fort o' God," he
began. "He was very young, and from the south. D'Arcambal was then
middle-aged, but his wife was young and beautiful. Jeanne says
that you saw her picture--against the wall. D'Arcambal worshiped
her. She was his life. You understand what happened. The man from
the south--the young wife--they went away together."

Pierre coughed. A bit of blood reddened his lips. Philip wiped it
away gently with his handkerchief, hiding the stain from Pierre's
eyes.

"Yes," he said, "I understand."

"It broke D'Arcambal's heart," resumed Pierre. "He destroyed
everything that had belonged to the woman. He turned her picture
to the wall. His love turned slowly to hate. It was two years
later that I came over the barrens one night and found Jeanne and
her dead mother. The woman, M'sieur--Jeanne's mother--was
D'Arcambal's wife. She was returning to Fort o' God, and God's
justice overtook her almost at its doors. I carried little Jeanne
to my Indian mother, and then made ready to carry the woman to her
husband. It was then that a terrible thought came to me. Jeanne
was not D'Arcambal's daughter. She was a part of the man who had
stolen his wife. I worshiped the little Jeanne even then, and for
her sake my mother and I swore secrecy, and buried the woman. Then
we took the babe to Fort o' God as a stranger. We saved her. We
saved D'Arcambal. No one ever knew."

Pierre stopped for breath.

"Was it best?"

"It was glorious," said Philip, trembling.

"It would have come out right--in the end--if the father had not
returned," said Pierre. "I must hurry, M'sieur, for it hurts me
now to talk. He came first a year ago, and revealed himself to
Jeanne. He told her everything. D'Arcambal was rich; Jeanne and I
both had money. He threatened--we bought him off. We fought to
keep the terrible thing from D'Arcambal. Our money sent him away
for a time. Then he returned. It was news of him I brought up the
river to Jeanne--from Churchill. I offered to kill him--but Jeanne
would not listen to that. But the Great God willed that I should.
I killed him to-night--over there!"

A great joy surged above the grief in Philip's heart. He could not
speak, but pressed Pierre's hand harder, and looked into his
glistening eyes.

Pierre's next words broke his silence, and wrung a low cry from
his lips.

"M'sieur, this man Thorpe--Jeanne's father--is the man whom you
know as Lord Fitzhugh Lee."

He coughed violently, and with sudden fear Philip lifted his head
so that it rested against his shoulder. After a moment he lowered
it again. His face was as white as Pierre's after that sudden fit
of coughing.

"I talked with him--alone--on the afternoon of the fight on the
rock," continued Pierre, huskily. "He was hiding in the woods near
Churchill, and left for Fort o' God on that same day. I did not
tell Jeanne--until after what happened, and I came up with you on
the river. Thorpe was waiting for us at Fort o' God. It was he
whom Jeanne saw that night beside the rock, but I could not tell
you the truth--then. He came often after that--two, three times a
week. He tortured Jeanne. My God! he taunted her, M'sieur, and
made her let him kiss her, because he was her father. We gave him
money--all that we could get; we promised him more, if he would
leave--five thousand dollars--in three years. He agreed to go--
after he had finished his work here. And that work--M'sieur--was
to destroy you. He told Jeanne, because it made her fear him more.
He compelled her to come to his cabin. He thought she was his
slave, that she would do anything to be free of him. He told her
of his plot--how he had fooled you in the sham fight with one of
his men--how those men were going to attack you a little later,
and how he had intercepted your letter from Churchill and sent in
its place the other letter which made your camp defenseless. He
was not afraid of her. She was in his power, and he laughed at her
horror, and tortured her as a cat will a bird. But Jeanne--"

A spasm of pain shot over Pierre's face. Fresh blood dyed his
lips, and a shiver ran through his body.

"My God!--water--something--M'sieur," he gasped. "I must go on!"

Philip raised him again in his arms. He saw MacDougall's head
appear through the door.

"You will rest easier this way, Pierre," he said.

After a few moments Pierre spoke in a gasping whisper.

"You must understand. I must be quick," he said. "We could not
warn you of what Jeanne had discovered. That would have revealed
her father. D'Arcambal would have known--every one. Thorpe plans
to dress his men--like Indians. They are to attack your camp to-
morrow night. Ten days ago we went to the camp of old Sachigo, the
Cree, who loves Jeanne as his own daughter. It was Jeanne's idea--
to save you. Jeanne told him of Thorpe's plot to destroy you, and
to lay the blame on Sachigo's people. Sachigo is out there--in the
mountains--hiding with thirty of his tribe. Two days ago Jeanne
learned where her father's men were hiding. We had planned
everything. To-morrow night--when they move to attack--we were to
start a signal-fire on the big rock mountain at the end of the
lake. Sachigo starts at the signal, and lays in ambush for the
others in the ravine between the two mountains. None of Thorpe's
men will come out alive. Sachigo and his people will destroy them,
and none will ever know how it happened, for the Crees keep their
secrets. But now--it is too late--for me. When it happens--I will
be gone. The signal-pile is built--birch-bark--at the very top of
the rock. Jeanne will wait for me out on the plain--and I will
not come. You must fire the signal, M'sieur--as soon as it is
dark. None will ever know. Jeanne's father is dead. You will keep
the secret--of her mother--always--"

"Forever," said Philip.

MacDougall came into the room, He brought a glass, partly filled
with a colored liquid, and placed it to Pierre's lips. Pierre
swallowed with an effort, and with a significant hunch of his
shoulders for Philip's eyes alone the engineer returned to the
little room.

"Mon Dieu, how it burns!" said Pierre, as if to himself. "May I
lie down again, M'sieur?"

Philip lowered him gently. He made no effort to speak in these
moments. Pierre's eyes were dark and luminous as they sought his
own. The draught he had taken gave him a passing strength.

"I saw Thorpe again this afternoon," he said, more calmly.
"D'Arcambal thought I had taken Jeanne to visit a trapper's wife
down the Churchill. I saw Thorpe--alone. He had been drinking. He
laughed at me, and said that Jeanne and I were fools--that he
would not leave as he had said he would--but that he would remain
--always. I told Jeanne, and asked her again to let me kill him.
But she said no--and I had taken my oath to her. Jeanne saw him
again to-night. I was near the cabin, and saw you. I told him I
would kill him if he did not go. He laughed again, and struck me.
When I came to my feet he was half across the open; I followed. I
forgot my oath. Rage filled my heart. You know what happened. You
will tell Jeanne--so that she will understand--"

"Can we not send for her?" asked Philip. "She must be near."

"No, M'sieur," he replied, softly. "It would only give her great
pain to see me--like this. She was to meet me to-night--at twelve
o'clock--on the trail where the road-bed crosses. You will meet
her in my place. When she understands all that has happened you
may bring her here, if she wishes to come. Then--to-morrow night--
you will go together to fire the signal."

"But Thorpe is dead," said Philip. "Will they attack without him?"

"There is another, besides him," said Pierre. "That is one secret
which Thorpe has kept from Jeanne--who the other is--the one who
is paying to have you destroyed. Yes--they will attack."

Philip bent low over Pierre.

"I have known of this plot for a long time, Pierre," he said,
tensely. "I know that this Thorpe, who for some reason has passed
as Lord Fitzhugh Lee, is but the agent of a more powerful force
behind him. Have you told me all, Pierre? Do you know nothing
more?"

"Nothing, M'sieur."

"Was it Thorpe who attacked you on the cliff at Churchill?"

"No, I am sure that it was not he. If the attack had not failed--
it would have meant loss--for him. I have laid it to the ruffians
who wanted to kill me--and secure Jeanne. You understand--"

"Yes, but I do not believe that was the motive for the attack,
Pierre," said Philip. "Did Thorpe go to see any one in Churchill?"

"I don't know. He was concealing himself in the forest."

A convulsive shudder ran through Pierre's body. He gave a low cry
of pain, and his hand clutched at the babiche cord which held the
locket about his neck.

"M'sieur," he whispered, quickly, "this locket--was on the little
Jeanne--when I found her in the snow. I kept it because it bears
the woman's initials. I am foolish, M'sieur. I am weak. But I
would like to have it buried with me--under the old tree--where
Jeanne's mother lies. And if you could, M'sieur--if you only
could--place something of Jeanne's in my hand--I would rest
easier."

Philip bowed his head in silence, while his eyes grew blinding
hot. Pierre pressed his hand.

"She loves you--as I love her," he whispered, so low that Philip
could scarcely hear. "You will love her--always. If you do not--
the Great God will let the curse of Pierre Couchee fall upon you!"

Choking back the great sobs that rose in his breast, Philip sank
upon his knees beside Pierre, and buried his face in his arms like
a heartbroken boy. For several moments there was a silence,
punctuated by the rasping breath of the wounded man. Suddenly this
sound ceased, and Philip felt a cold fear leap through him. He
listened, neither breathing nor lifting his head. In that interval
of pulseless quiet a terrible cry came from Pierre's lips, and
when Philip looked up the dying half-breed had struggled to a
sitting posture, blood staining his lips again, his eyes blazing,
his white face damp with the clammy touch of death, and was
staring through the cabin window. It was the window that looked
out over the lake, toward the rock mountain half a mile away.
Philip turned, horrified and wondering. Through the window he saw
a glow in the sky--the glow of a fire, leaping up in a crimson
flood from the top of the mountain!

Again that terrible, moaning cry fell from Pierre's lips, and he
reached out his arms toward the signal that was blazing forth its
warning in the night.

"Jeanne--Jeanne--" he sobbed. "My Jeanne--"

He swayed, and fell back. His words came in choking gasps.

"The signal!" he struggled, fighting to make Philip understand
him. "Jeanne--saw--Thorpe--to-night. He--must--changed--plans.
Attack--to-night. Jeanne--Jeanne--my Jeanne--has lighted--the
signal--fire!"

A tremor ran through his body, and he lay still. MacDougall ran
across from the half-open door, and put his head to Pierre's
breast.

"Is he dead?" asked Philip.

"Not yet."

"Will he become conscious again?"

"Possibly."

Philip gripped MacDougall by the arm.

"The attack is to be made to-night, Mac," he exclaimed. "Warn the
men. Have them ready. But you--YOU, MacDougall, attend to this
man, AND KEEP HIM ALIVE!"

Without another word he ran to the door and out into the night.
The signal-fire was leaping to the sky. It lighted up the black
cap of the mountain, and sent a thousand aurora fires flashing
across the lake. And Philip, as he ran swiftly through the camp
toward the narrow trail that led to that mountain-top, repeated
over and over again the dying words of Pierre--

"Jeanne--my Jeanne--my Jeanne--"





XXII


News of the double tragedy had swept through the camp, and there
was a crowd in front of the supply-house. Philip passed close to
Thorpe's house to avoid discovery, ran a hundred yards up the
trail over which Jeanne had fled a short time before, and then cut
straight across through the thin timber for the head of the lake.
He felt no effort in his running. Low bush whipped him in the face
and left no sting. He was not conscious that he was panting for
breath when he came out in the black shadow of the mountain. This
night in itself had been a creation for him, for out of grief and
pain it had lifted him into a new life, and into a happiness that
seemed to fill him with the strength and the endurance of five
men. Jeanne loved him! The wonderful truth cried itself out in his
soul at every step he took, and he murmured it aloud to himself,
over and over again, as he ran.

The glow of the signal-fire lighted up the sky above him, and he
climbed up, higher and higher, scrambling swiftly from rock to
rock, until he saw the tips of the flames licking up into the sky.
He had come up the steepest and shortest side of the ridge, and
when he reached the top he lay upon his face for a moment, his
breath almost gone.

The fire was built against a huge dead pine, and the pine was
blazing a hundred feet in the air. He could feel its heat. The
monster torch illumined the barren cap of the rock from edge to
edge, and he looked about him for Jeanne. For a moment he did not
see her, and her name rose to his lips, to be stilled in the same
breath by what he saw beyond the burning pine. Through the blaze
of the heat and fire fie beheld Jeanne, standing close to the edge
of the mountain, gazing into the south and west. He called her
name. Jeanne turned toward him with a startled cry, and Philip was
at her side. The girl's face was white and strained. Her lips were
twisted in pain at sight of him. She spoke no word, but a strange
sound rose in her throat, a welling-up of the sudden despair which
the fire-light revealed in her eyes. For one moment they stood
apart, and Philip tried to speak. And then, suddenly, he reached
out and drew her quickly into his arms--so quickly that there was
no time for her to escape, so closely that her sweet face lay
imprisoned upon his breast, as he had held it once before, under
the picture at Fort o' God. He felt her straining to free herself;
he saw the fear in her eyes, and he tried to speak calmly, while
his heart throbbed with the passion of love which he wished to
pour into her ears.

"Listen, Jeanne," he said. "Pierre has sent me to you. He has told
me everything--everything, my sweetheart. There is nothing to
keep from me now. I know. I understand. And I love you--love you--
love you--my own sweet Jeanne!"

She trembled at his words. He felt her shuddering in his arms, and
her eyes gazed at him wonderingly, filled with a strange and
incredulous look, while her lips quivered and remained speechless.
He drew her nearer, until his face was against her own, and the
warmth of her lips, her eyes, and her hair entered into him, and
near stifled his heart with joy.

"He has told me everything, my little Jeanne," he said again, in a
whisper that rose just above the crackling of the pine.
"Everything. He told me because he knew that I loved you, and
because--"

The words choked in his throat. At this hesitation Jeanne drew her
head back, and, with her hands pressing against his breast, looked
into his face. There were in her eyes the same struggling
emotions, but with them now there came also a sweet faltering, a
piteous appeal to him, a faith that rose above her terrors, and
the tremble of her lips was like that of a crying child. He drew
her face back, and kissed the quivering lips, and suddenly he felt
the strain against him give way, and Jeanne's head sobbed upon his
breast. In that moment, looking where the roaring pine sent its
pinnacles of flame leaping up into the night, a word of thanks, of
prayer, rose mutely to his lips, and he held Jeanne more closely,
and whispered over and over again in his happiness, "Jeanne--
Jeanne--my sweetheart Jeanne."

Jeanne's sobs grew less and less, and Philip strengthened himself
to tell her the terrible news of Pierre. He knew that in the
selfishness of his own joy he had already wasted precious minutes,
and very gently he took Jeanne's wet face between his two hands
and turned it a little toward his own.

"Pierre has told me everything, Jeanne," he repeated. "Everything
--from the day he found you many years ago to the day your father
returned to torture you." He spoke calmly, even as he felt her
shiver in pain against him. "To-night there was a little trouble
down in the camp, dear. Pierre is wounded, and wants you to come
to him. Thorpe--is--dead."

For an instant Philip was frightened at what happened. Jeanne's
breath ceased. There seemed to be not a quiver of life in her
body, and she lay in his arms as if dead. And then, suddenly,
there came from her a terrible cry, and she wrenched herself free,
and stood a step from him, her face as white as death.

"He--is--dead--"

"Yes, he is dead."

"And Pierre--Pierre killed him?"

Philip held out his arms, but Jeanne did not seem to see them. She
saw the answer in his face.

"And--Pierre--is--hurt--" she went on, never taking her wide,
luminous eyes from his face.

Before he answered Philip took her trembling hands in his own, as
though he would lighten the blow by the warmth and touch of his
great love.

"Yes, he is hurt, Jeanne," he said. "We must hurry, for I am
afraid there is no time to lose."

"He is--dying?"

"I fear so, Jeanne."

He turned before the look that came into her face, and led her
about the circle of fire to the side of the mountain that sloped
down into the plain. Suddenly Jeanne stopped for an instant. Her
fingers tightened about his. Her face was turned back into the
endless desolation of night and forest that lay to the south and
west. Far out--a mile--two miles--an answering fire was breaking
the black curtain that hid all things beyond them. Jeanne lifted
her face to him. Grief and love, pain and joy, shone in her eyes.

"They are there!" she said, chokingly. "It is Sachigo, and they
are coming--coming--coming--"

Once again before they began the descent of the mountain Philip
drew her close in his arms, and kissed her. And this time there
was the sweet surrender to him of all things in the tenderness of
Jeanne's lips. Silent in their grief, and yet communing in
sympathy and love in the firm clasp of their hands, they came down
the mountain, through the thin spruce forest, and to the lighted
cabin where Pierre lay dying. MacDougall was in the room when they
entered, and rose softly, tiptoeing into the little office. Philip
led Jeanne to Pierre's side, and as he bent over him, and spoke
softly, the half-breed opened his eyes. He saw Jeanne. Into his
fading eyes there came a wonderful light. His lips moved, and his
hands strove to lift themselves above the crumpled blanket. Jeanne
dropped upon her knees beside him, and as she clasped his chilled
hands to her breast a glorious understanding lighted up her face;
and then she took Pierre's face between her hands, and bowed her
own close down to it, so that the two were hidden under the
beauteous halo of her hair. Philip gripped at his throat to hold
back a sob. A terrible stillness came into the room, and he dared
not move. It seemed a long time before Jeanne lifted her head,
slowly, tenderly, as if fearing to awaken a sleeping child. She
turned to him, and he read the truth in her face before she had
spoken. Her voice was low and calm, filled with the sweetness and
tenderness and strength that come only to a woman in the final
moment of a great sorrow.

"Leave us, Philip," she said. "Pierre is dead."





XXIII


For a moment Philip bowed his head, and then he turned and went
noiselessly from the room, without speaking. As he closed the door
softly behind him he looked back, and from her attitude beside
Pierre he knew that Jeanne was whispering a prayer. A vision
flashed before him, so quick that it had come like a ray of light
--a vision of another hour, years and years ago, when Pierre had
knelt beside HER, and when he had lifted up his wild, half-thought
prayer out in the death-chill of the snowy barrens. And this was
his reward, to have Jeanne kneel beside him as the soul which had
loved her so faithfully took its flight.

Philip could not see when he turned his face to the light of the
office. For the first time the grief which he had choked back
escaped in a gasping break in his voice, and he wiped his eyes
with his pocket-handkerchief. He knew that MacDougall was looking
upon his weakness, but he did not at first see that there was
another person in the room besides the engineer. This second
person rose to meet him, while MacDougall remained in his seat,
and as he came out into the clearer light of the room Philip could
scarce believe his eyes.

It was Gregson!

"I am sorry that I came in just at this time, Phil," he greeted,
in a low voice.

Philip stared, still incredulous. He had never seen Gregson as he
looked now. The artist advanced no farther. He did not hold out
his hand. There was none of the joy of meeting in his face. His
eyes shifted to the door that led into the death-chamber, and they
were filled with the gloom of a condemned man. With a low word
Philip held out his hand to meet his old comrade's. Gregson drew
back.

"No--not now," he said. "Wait--until you have heard me."

Something in his cold, passionless voice stopped Philip. He saw
Gregson glance toward MacDougall, and understood what he meant.
Going to the engineer, he placed a hand on his shoulder, and spoke
so that only he could hear.

"She is in there, Mac--with Pierre. She wanted to be alone with
him for a few minutes. Will you wait for her--outside--at the
door, and take her over to Cassidy's wife? Tell her that I will
come to her in a little while."

He followed MacDougall to the door, speaking to him in a low
voice, and then turned to Gregson. The artist had seated himself
at one side of the small office table, and Philip sat down
opposite him, holding out his hand to him again.

"What is the matter, Greggy?"

"This is not a time for long explanations," said the artist, still
holding back his hand. "They can come later, Phil. But to-night--
now--you must understand why I cannot shake hands with you. We
have been friends for a good many years. In a few minutes we will
be enemies--or you will be mine. One thing, before I go on, I must
ask of you. I demand it. Whatever passes between us during the
next ten minutes, say no word against Eileen Brokaw. I will say
what you might say--that for a time her soul wandered, and was
almost lost. But it has come back to her, strong and pure. I love
her. Some strange fate has ordained that she should love me,
worthless as I am. She is to be my wife."

Philip's hand was still across the table.

"Greggy--Greggy--God bless you!" he cried, softly. "I know what it
is to love, and to be loved. Why should I be your enemy because
Eileen Brokaw's heart has turned to gold, and she has given it to
you? Greggy, shake!"

"Wait," said Gregson, huskily. "Phil, you are breaking my heart.
Listen. You got my note? But I did not desert you so abominably. I
made a discovery that last night of yours in Churchill. I went to
Eileen Brokaw, and to-morrow--some time--if you care I will tell
you of all that happened. First you must know this. I have found
the 'power' that is fighting you down below. I have found the man
who is behind the plot to ruin your company, the man who is
responsible for Thorpe's crimes, the man who is responsible--for--
that--in--there."

He leaned across the table and pointed to the closed door.

"And that man--"

For a moment he seemed to choke.

"Is Brokaw, the father of my affianced wife!"

"Good God!" cried Philip. "Gregson, are you mad?"

"I was almost mad, when I first made the discovery," said Gregson,
as cold as ice. "But I am sane now. His scheme was to have the
government annul your provisional license. Thorpe and his men were
to destroy this camp, and kill you. The money on hand from stock,
over six hundred thousand dollars, would have gone into Brokaw's
pockets. There is no need of further detail--now--for you can
understand. He knew Thorpe, and secured him as his agent. It was
merely a whim of Thorpe's to take the name of Lord Fitzhugh
instead of something less conspicuous. Three months before Brokaw
came to Churchill he wished to get detailed instructions to Thorpe
which he dared not trust to a wilderness mail service. He could
find no messenger whom he dared trust. So he sent Eileen. She was
at Fort o' God for a week. Then she came to Churchill, where we
saw her. The scheme was that Brokaw should bribe the ship's
captain to run close into Blind Eskimo Point, at night, and signal
to Thorpe and Eileen, who would be waiting. It worked, and Eileen
and Thorpe came on with the ship. At the landing--you remember--
Eileen was met by the girl from Fort o' God. In order not to
betray herself to you she refused to recognize her. Later she told
her father, and Thorpe and Brokaw saw in it an opportunity to
strike a first blow. Brokaw had brought two men whom he could
trust, and Thorpe had four or five others at Churchill. The attack
on the cliff followed, the object being to kill the man, but take
the girl unharmed, A messenger was to take the news of what
happened to Fort o' God, and lay the crime to men who had run up
to Churchill from your camp. Chance favored you that night, and
you spoiled their plan. Chance favored me, and I found Eileen. It
is useless for me to go into detail as to what happened after
that, except to say this--that Eileen knew nothing of the proposed
attack, that she was ignorant of the heinousness of the plot
against you, and that she was almost as much a tool of her father
as you. Phil--"

For the first time there came a pleading light into Gregson's eyes
as he leaned across the table.

"Phil, if it wasn't for Eileen I would not be here. I thought that
she would kill herself when I told her as much of the story as I
knew. She told me what she had done; she confessed for her father.
In that hour of her agony I could not keep back my love. We
plotted. I forged a letter, and made it possible to accompany
Brokaw and Eileen up the Churchill. It was not my purpose to join
you, and so Eileen professed to be taken ill. We camped, back from
the river, and I sent our two Indians back to Churchill, for
Eileen and I wished to be alone with Brokaw in the terrible hour
that was coming. That is all. Everything is revealed. I have come
to you as quickly as I could, to find that Thorpe is dead. In my
own selfishness I would have shielded Brokaw, arguing that he
could pay Thorpe, and work honorably henceforth. You would never
have known. It is Eileen who makes this confession, not I. Phil,
her last words to me were these: 'You love me. Then you will tell
him all this. Only after this, if he shows us a mercy which we do
not deserve, can I be your wife.'

"There is only one other thing to add. I have shown Brokaw a ray
of hope. He will hand over to you all his rights in the company
and the six hundred thousand in the treasury. He will sign over to
you, as repurchase money for whatever stock you wish to call in,
practically his whole fortune--five hundred thousand. He will
disappear, completely and forever. Eileen and I will hunt out our
own little corner in a new world, and you will never hear of us
again. This is what we have planned to do, if you show us mercy."

Philip had not spoken during Gregson's terrible recital. He sat
like one turned to stone. Rage, wonder, and horror burned so
fiercely in his heart that they consumed all evidence of emotion.
And to arouse him now there came an interruption that sent the
blood flushing back into his face--a low knock at the closed door,
a slow lifting of the latch, the appearance of Jeanne. Through her
tears she saw only the man she loved, and sobbing aloud now, like
a child, she stretched out her arms to him; and when he sprang to
her and caught her to his breast, she whispered his name again and
again, and stroked his face with her hands. Love, overpowering,
breathing of heaven, was in her touch, and as she lifted her face
to him of her own sweet will now, entreating him to kiss her and
to comfort her for what she had lost, he saw Gregson moving with
bowed head, like a stricken thing, toward the outer door. In that
moment the things that had been in his heart melted away, and
raising a hand above his head, he called, softly:

"Tom Gregson, my old chum, if you have found a love like this,
thank your God. My own love I would lose if I destroyed yours. Go
back to Eileen. Tell Brokaw that I accept his offers. And when you
come back in a few days, bring Eileen. My Jeanne will love her."

And Jeanne, looking from Philip's face, saw Gregson, for the first
time, as he passed through the door.





XXIV


Both Philip and Jeanne were silent for some moments after Gregson
had gone; their only movement was the gentle stroking of Philip's
hand over the girl's soft hair. Their hearts were full, too full
for speech. And yet he knew that upon his strength depended
everything now. The revelations of Gregson, which virtually ended
the fight against him personally, were but trivial in his thoughts
compared with the ordeal which was ahead of Jeanne. Both Pierre
and her father were dead, and, with the exception of Jeanne, no
one but he knew of the secret that had died with them. He could
feel against him the throbbing of the storm that was passing in
the girl's heart, and in answer to it he said nothing in words,
but held her to him with a gentleness that lifted her face, quiet
and beautiful, so that her eyes looked steadily and questioningly
into his own.

"You love me," she said, simply, and yet with a calmness that sent
a curious thrill through him.

"Beyond all else in the world," he replied.

She still looked at him, without speaking, as though through his
eyes she was searching to the bottom of his soul.

"And you know," she whispered, after a moment.

He drew her so close she could not move, and crushed his face down
against her own.

"Jeanne--Jeanne--everything is as it should be," he said. "I am
glad that you were found out in the snows. I am glad that the
woman in the picture was your mother. I would have nothing
different than it is, for if things were different you would not
be the Jeanne that I know, and I would not love you so. You have
suffered, sweetheart. And I, too, have had my share of sorrow. God
has brought us together, and all is right in the end. Jeanne--my
sweet Jeanne--"

Gregson had left the outer door slightly ajar. A gust of wind
opened it wider. Through it there came now a sound that
interrupted the words on Philip's lips, and sent a sudden quiver
through Jeanne. In an instant both recognized the sound. It was
the firing of rifles, the shots coming to them faintly from far
beyond the mountain at the end of the lake. Moved by the same
impulse, they ran to the door, hand in hand.

"It is Sachigo!" panted Jeanne. She could hardly speak. She seemed
to struggle to get breath, "I had forgotten. They are fighting--"

MacDougall strode up from his post beside the door, where he had
been waiting for the appearance of Jeanne.

"Firing--off there," he said. "What does it mean?"

"We must wait and see," replied Philip. "Send two of your men to
investigate, Mac. I will rejoin you after I have taken Miss
d'Arcambal over to Cassidy's wife."

He moved away quickly with Jeanne. On a sudden rise of the wind
from the south the firing came to them more distinctly. Then it
died away, and ended in three or four intermittent shots. For the
space of a dozen seconds a strange stillness followed, and then
over the mountain top, where there was still a faint glow in the
sky, there came the low, quavering, triumphal cry of the Crees: a
cry born of the forest itself, mournful even in its joy, only half
human--almost like a far-away burst of tongue from a wolf pack on
the hunt trail. And after that there was an unbroken silence.

"It is over," breathed Philip.

He felt Jeanne's fingers tighten about his own.

"No one will ever know," he continued. "Even MacDougall will not
guess what has happened out there--to-night."

He stopped a dozen paces from Cassidy's cabin. The windows were
aglow, and they could hear the laughter and play of Cassidy's two
children within. Gently he drew Jeanne to him.

"You will stay here to-night, dear," he said. "To-morrow we will
go to Fort o' God."

"You must take me home to-night," whispered Jeanne, looking up
into his face. "I must go, Philip. Send some one with me, and you
can come--in the morning--with Pierre--"

She put her hand to his face again, in the sweet touch that told
more of her love than a thousand words.

"You understand, dear," she went on, seeing the anxiety in his
eyes. "I have the strength--to-night. I must return to father,
and he will know everything--when you come to Fort o' God."

"I will send MacDougall with you," said Philip, after a moment.
"And then I will follow--"

"With Pierre."

"Yes, with Pierre."

For a brief space longer they stood outside of Cassidy's cabin,
and then Philip, lifting her face, said gently:

"Will you kiss me, dear? It is the first time."

He bent down, and Jeanne's lips reached his own.

"No, it is not the first time," she confessed, in a whisper. "Not
since that day--when I thought you were dying--after we came
through the rapids--"

Five minutes later Philip returned to MacDougall. Roberts,
Henshaw, Cassidy, and Lecault were with the engineer.

"I've sent the St. Pierres to find out about the firing," he said.
"Look at the crowd over at the store. Every one heard it, and
they've seen the fire on the mountain. They think the Indians have
cornered a moose or two and are shooting them by the blaze."

"They're probably right," said Philip. "I want a word with you,
Mac."

He walked a little aside with the engineer, leaving the others in
a group, and in a low voice told him as much as he cared to reveal
about the identity of Thorpe and Gregson's mission in camp. Then
he spoke of Jeanne.

"I believe that the death of Thorpe practically ends all danger to
us," he concluded. "I'm going to offer you a pleasanter job than
fighting, Mac. It is imperative that Miss d'Arcambal should return
to D'Arcambal House before morning, and I want you to take her, if
you will. I'm choosing the best man I've got because--well,
because she's going to be my wife, Mac. I'm the happiest man on
earth to-night!"

MacDougall did not show surprise.

"Guessed it," he said, shortly, thrusting out a hand and grinning
broadly into Philip's face "Couldn't help from seeing, Phil. And
the firing, and Thorpe, and that half-breed in there--"

Understanding was slowly illuminating his face.

"You'll know all about them a little later, Mac," said Philip
softly. "To-night we must investigate nothing--very far. Miss
d'Arcambal must be taken home immediately. Will you go?"

"With pleasure."

"She can ride one of the horses as far as the Little Churchill,"
continued Philip. "And there she will show you a canoe. I will
follow in the morning with the body of Pierre, the half-breed."

A quarter of an hour later MacDougall and Jeanne set out over the
river trail, leaving Philip standing behind, watching them until
they were hidden in the night. It was fully an hour later before
the St. Pierres returned. Philip was uneasy until the two dark-
faced hunters came into the little office and leaned their rifles
against the wall. He had feared that Sachigo might have left some
trace of his ambush behind. But the St. Pierres had discovered
nothing, and could give only one reason for the burning pine on
the summit of the mountain. They agreed that Indians had fired it
to frighten moose from a thick cover to the south and west, and
that their hunt had been a failure.

It was midnight before Philip relaxed his caution, which he
maintained until then in spite of his belief that Thorpe's men,
under Blake, had met a quick finish at the hands of Sachigo and
his ambushed braves. His men left for their cabins, with the
exception of Cassidy, whom he asked to spend the remainder of the
night in one of the office bunks. Alone he went in to prepare
Pierre for his last journey to Fort o' God.

A lamp was burning low beside the bunk in which Pierre lay. Philip
approached and turned the wick higher, and then he gazed in wonder
upon the transfiguration in the half-breed's face. Pierre had died
with a smile on his lips; and with a curious thickening in his
throat Philip thought that those lips, even in death, were craved
in the act of whispering Jeanne's name. It seemed to him, as he
stood in silence for many moments, that Pierre was not dead, but
that he was sleeping a quiet, unbreathing sleep, in which there
came to him visions of the great love for which he had offered up
his life and his soul. Jeanne's hands, in his last moments, had
stilled all pain. Peace slumbered in the pale shadows of his
closed eyes. The Great God of his faith had come to him in his
hour of greatest need on earth, and he had passed away into the
Valley of Silent Men on the sweet breath of Jeanne's prayers. The
girl had crossed his hands upon his breast. She had brushed back
his long hair. Philip knew that she had imprinted a kiss upon the
silent lips before the soul had fled, and in the warmth and
knowledge of that kiss Pierre had died happy.

And Philip, brokenly, said aloud:

"God bless you, Pierre, old man!"

He lifted the cold hands back, and gently drew the covers which
had hidden the telltale stains of death from Jeanne's eyes. He
turned down Pierre's shirt, and in the lamp-glow there glistened
the golden locket. For the first time he noticed it closely. It
was half as large as the palm of his hand, and very thin, and he
saw that it was bent and twisted. A shudder ran through him when
he understood what had happened. The bullet that had killed Pierre
had first struck the locket, and had burst it partly open. He took
it in his hand. And then he saw that through the broken side there
protruded the end of a bit of paper. For a brief space the
discovery made him almost forget the presence of death. Pierre had
never opened the locket, because it was of the old-fashioned kind
that locked with a key, and the key was gone. And the locket had
been about Jeanne's neck when he found her out in the snows! Was
it possible that this bit of paper had something to do with the
girl he loved?

Carefully, so that it would not tear, he drew it forth. There was
writing on the paper, as he had expected, and he read it, bent low
beside the lamp. The date was nearly eighteen years old. The lines
were faint. The words were these:

MY HUSBAND,--God can never undo what I have done. I have dragged
myself back, repentant, loving you more than I have ever loved you
in my life, to leave our little girl with you. She is your
daughter, and mine. She was born on the eighth day of September,
the seventh month after I left Fort o' God, She is yours, and so I
bring her back to you, with the prayer that she will help to fill
the true and noble heart that I have broken. I cannot ask your
forgiveness, for I do not deserve it. I cannot let you see me, for
I should kill myself at your feet. I have lived this long only for
the baby. I will leave her where you cannot fail to find her, and
by the time you have read this I will have answered for my sin--
my madness, if you can have charity regard it so. And if God is
kind I will hover about you always, and you will know that in
death the old sweetheart, and the mother, has found what she could
never again hope for in life.

YOUR WIFE.

Philip rose slowly erect and gazed down into the still, tranquil
face of Pierre, the half-breed.

"Why didn't you open it?" he whispered. "Why didn't you open it?
My God, what it would have saved--"

For a full minute he looked down at Pierre, as though he expected
that the white lips would move and answer him. And then he thought
of Jeanne hurrying to Fort o' God, and of the terrible things
which she was to reveal to her father that night. She was
D'Arcambal's own daughter. What pain--what agony of father and
child he might have saved if he had examined the locket a little
sooner! He looked at his watch and found that Jeanne had been gone
three hours. It would be impossible to overtake MacDougall and the
girl unless something had occurred to delay them somewhere along
the trail. He hurried back into the little room, where he had left
Cassidy. In a few words he explained that it was necessary for him
to follow Jeanne and the engineer to D'Arcambal House without a
moment's delay, and he directed Cassidy to take charge of camp
affairs, and to send Pierre's body with a suitable escort the next
day.

"It isn't necessary for me to tell you what to do," he finished,
"You understand."

Cassidy nodded. Six months before he had buried his youngest child
under a big spruce back of his cabin.

Philip hastened to the stables, and, choosing one of the lighter
animals, was soon galloping over the trail toward the Little
Churchill. In his face there blew a cold wind from Hudson's Bay,
and now and then he felt the sting of fine particles in his eyes.
They were the presage of storm. A shifting of the wind a little to
the east and south, and the fine particles would thicken, and turn
into snow. By morning the world would be white. He came into the
forests beyond the plain, and in the spruce and the cedar tops the
wind was half a gale, filling the night with wailing and moaning
sounds that sent strange shivers through him as he thought of
Pierre in the cabin. In such a way, he imagined, had the north
wind swept across the cold barrens on the night that Pierre had
found the woman and the babe; and now it seemed, in his fancies,
as though above and about him the great hand that had guided the
half-breed then was bringing back the old night, as if Pierre, in
dying, had wished it so. For the wind changed. The fine particles
thickened, and changed to snow. And then there was no longer the
wailing and the moaning in the tree-tops, but the soft murmur of a
white deluge that smothered him in a strange gloom and hid the
trail. There were two canoes concealed at the end of the trail on
the Little Churchill, and Philip chose the smallest. He followed
swiftly after MacDougall and Jeanne. He could no longer see either
side of the stream, and he was filled with a fear that he might
pass the little creek that led to Fort o' God. He timed himself by
his watch, and when he had paddled for two hours he ran in close
to the west shore, traveling so slowly that he did not progress a
mile in half an hour. And then suddenly, from close ahead, there
rose through the snow-gloom the dismal howl of a dog, which told
him that he was near to Fort o' God. He found the black opening
that marked the entrance to the creek, and when he ran upon the
sand-bar a hundred yards beyond he saw lights burning in the great
room where he had first seen D'Arcambal. He went now where Pierre
had led him that night, and found the door unlocked. He entered
silently, and passed down the dark hall until, on the left, he saw
a glow of light that came from the big room. Something in the
silence that was ahead of him made his own approach without sound,
and softly he entered through the door.

In the great chair sat the master of Fort o' God, his gray head
bent; at his feet knelt Jeanne, and so close were they that
D'Arcambal's face was hidden in Jeanne's shining, disheveled hair.
No sooner had Philip entered the room than his presence seemed to
arouse the older man. He lifted his head slowly, looking toward
the door, and when he saw who stood there he raised one of his
arms from about the girl and held it out to Philip.

"My son!" he said.

In a moment Philip was upon his knees beside Jeanne, and one of
D'Arcambal's heavy hands fell upon his shoulder in a touch that
told him he had come too late to keep back any part of the
terrible story which Jeanne had bared to him. The girl did not
speak when she saw him beside her. It was as if she had expected
him to come, and her hand found his and nestled in it, as cold as
ice.

"I have hurried from the camp," he said. "I tried to overtake
Jeanne. About Pierre's neck I found a locket, and in the locket--
was this--"

He looked into D'Arcambal's haggard face as he gave him the blood-
stained note, and he knew that in the moment that was to come the
master of Fort o' God and his daughter should be alone.

"I will wait in the portrait-room," he said, in a low voice, and
as he rose to his feet he pressed Jeanne's hand to his lips.

The old room was as he had left it weeks before. The picture of
Jeanne's mother still hung with its face to the wall. There was
the same elusive movement of the portrait over the volume of warm
air that rose from the floor. In this room he seemed to breathe
again the presence of a warm spirit of life, as he had felt it on
the first night--a spirit that seemed to him to be a part of
Jeanne herself, and he thought of the last words of the wife and
mother--of her promise to remain always near those whom she loved,
to regain after death the companionship which she could never hope
for in life. And then there came to him a thought of the vast and
wonderful mystery of death, and he wondered if it was her spirit
that had been with him more than one lonely night, when his camp-
fire was low; if it was her presence that had filled him with
transcendent dreams of hope and love, coming to him that night
beside the rock at Churchill, and leading him at last to Jeanne,
for whom she had given up her life. He heard again the rising of
the wind outside and the beating of the storm against the window,
and he went softly to see if his vision could penetrate into the
white, twisting gloom beyond the glass. For many minutes he stood,
seeing nothing. And then he heard a sound, and turned to see
Jeanne and her father standing in the door. Glory was in the face
of the master of Fort o' God. He seemed not to see Philip--he
seemed to see nothing but the picture that was turned against the
wall. He strode across the room, his great shoulders straightened,
his shaggy head erect, and with the pride of one revealing first
to human eyes the masterpiece of his soul and life he turned the
picture so that the radiant face of the wife and mother looked
down upon him. And was it fancy that for a fleeting moment the
smile left the beautiful lips, and a light, soft and luminous,
pleading for love and forgiveness, filled the eyes of Jeanne's
mother? Philip trembled. Jeanne came across to him silently, and
crept into his arms. And then, slowly, the master of Fort o' God
turned toward them and stretched out both of his great arms.

"My children!" he said.





XXV


All that night the storm came out of the north and east. Hours
after Jeanne and her father had left him Philip went quietly from
his room, passed down the hall, and opened the outer door. He
could hear the gale whistling over the top of the great rock, and
moaning in the spruce and cedar forest, and he closed the door
after him, and buried himself in the darkness and wind. He bowed
his head to the stinging snow, which came like blasts of steeled
shot, and hurried into the shelter of the Sun Rock, and stood
there after that listening to the wildness of the storm and the
strange whistling of the wind cutting itself to pieces far over
his head. Since man had first beheld that rock such storms as this
had come and gone for countless generations. Two hundred years and
more had passed since Grosellier first looked out upon a wondrous
world from its summit. And yet this storm--to-night--whistling
and moaning about him, filling all space with its grief, its
triumph, and its madness, seemed to be for him--and for him alone.
His heart answered to it. His soul trembled to the marvelous
meaning of it. To-night this storm was his own. He was a part of a
world which he would never leave. Here, beside the great Sun Rock
of the Crees, he had found home, life, happiness, his God. Here,
henceforth through all time, he would live with his beloved
Jeanne, dreaming no dreams that went beyond the peace of the
mountains and the forests. He lifted his face to where the storm
swept above him, and for an instant he fancied that high up on the
ragged edge of the rock there might have stood Pierre, with his
great, gaping, hungry heart, filled with pain and yearning,
staring off into the face of the Almighty. And he fancied, too,
that beside him there hovered the wife and mother. And then he
looked to Fort o' God. The lights were out. Quiet, if not sleep,
had fallen upon all life within. And it seemed to Philip, as he
went back again through the storm, that in the moaning tumult of
the night there was music instead of sadness.

He did not sleep until nearly morning. And when he awoke he found
that the storm had passed, and that over a world of spotless white
there had risen a brilliant sun. He looked out from his window,
and saw the top of the Sun Rock glistening in a golden fire, and
where the forest trees had twisted and moaned there were now
unending canopies of snow, so that it seemed as though the storm,
in passing, had left behind only light, and beauty, and happiness
for all living things.

Trembling with the joy of this, Philip went to his door, and from
the door down the hall, and where the light of the sun blazed
through a window near to the great room where he expected to find
the master of Fort o' God, there stood Jeanne. And as she heard
him coming, and turned toward him, all the glory and beauty of the
wondrous day was in her face and hair. Like an angel she stood
waiting for him, pale and yet flushing a little, her eyes shining
and yearning for him, her soul in the tremble of the single word
on her sweet lips.

"Philip--"

"Jeanne--"

No more--and yet against each other their hearts told what it was
futile for their lips to attempt. They looked out through the
window. Beyond that window, as far as the vision could reach,
swept the barrens, over which Pierre had brought the little
Jeanne. Something sobbing rose in the girl's throat. She lifted
her eyes, swimming with love and tears, to Philip, and from his
breast she reached up both hands gently to his face.

"They will bring Pierre--to-day---" she whispered.

"Yes--to-day."

"We will bury him out yonder," she said, stroking his face, and he
knew that she meant out in the barren, where the mother lay.

He bowed his face close down against hers to hide the woman's
weakness that was bringing a misty film into his eyes.

"You love me," she whispered. "You love me--love me--and you will
never take me away, but will stay with me always. You will stay
here--dear--in my beautiful world--we two--alone--"

"For ever and for ever," he murmured.

They heard a step, firm and vibrant with the strength of a new
life, and they knew that it was the master of Fort o' God.

"Always--we two--forever," whispered Philip again.

THE END





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