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.