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.