Jacqueline glided out of the tent and knelt beside me, putting her arms about the dog’s neck and her head upon its furry coat.  The dogs loved her, and she seemed always to understand their needs.

“Paul, there is something wrong with them,” she said, her hand still caressing the mane of the great beast, who looked at her with pathetic eyes.

I had noticed that they did not eat that night, but had imagined that they would do so later when they had recovered from their fatigue.

“What is wrong with them, Jacqueline?” I asked.

She raised her head and looked sadly at me.  “It is I, Paul,” she answered.

“You, Jacqueline?”

“Yes, it is I!” she cried with sudden, passionate vehemence.  “It is I who am wrong and have brought trouble on you.  Paul, I do not even know how you came into my life, nor who I am, nor anything that happened to me at any time before you brought me to Quebec, except that my home is there.”  She pointed northward.  “Who am I?  Jacqueline, you say.  The name means nothing to me.  I am a woman without a past or future, a shadow that falls across your life, Paul.  And I could perhaps remember, but I know—­I know—­that I must never remember.”

She began weeping wildly.  I surmised that she must have been under an intense strain for days.  I had not dreamed that this girl who walked by my side and paid me the tribute of her docile faith suffered and knew.

I took her hand in mine.  “Dear Jacqueline,” I answered, “it is best to forget these things until the time comes to remember them.  It will come, Jacqueline.  Let us be happy till then.  You have been ill, and you have had great trouble.  That is all.  I am taking you home.  Do you not remember anything about your home, Jacqueline?”

She clapped her hands to her head and gave a little terrified cry.

“I—­think—­so,” she murmured.  “But I dare not remember, Paul.

“I have dreamed of things,” she went on in agitated, rapid tones, “and then I have seemed to remember everything.  But when I wake I have forgotten, and it is because I know that I must forget.  Paul, I dream of a dead man, and men who hate and are following us.  Was there—­ever—­a dead man, Paul?” she asked, shuddering.

“No, dear Jacqueline,” I answered stoutly.  “Those dreams are lies.”

She still looked hopelessly at me, and I knew she was not quite convinced.

“Oh, it was not true, Paul?” she asked pleadingly, gathering each word upon each indrawn breath.

I placed one arm around her.

“Jacqueline, there never was any dead man,” I said.  “It is not true.  Some day I will tell you everything—­some day——­”

I broke off helplessly, for my voice failed me, I was so shaken.  I knew that at last I was conquered by the passion that possessed me, long repressed, but not less strong for its repression.  I caught her in my arms.