Vainly he called upon them to leave their victims.  He was seeking for a club when through the balsam thicket burst John Adare and Father George at the head of a dozen men.  In response to Adare’s roaring voice the pack slunk off.  The beaten snow was crimson.  Even Adare, as he faced Philip, could find no words in his horror.  Philip pointed to the tepee.

“Josephine—­is there—­safe,” he gasped.  As Adare rushed into the tepee Philip swayed up to Father George.

“I am dizzy—­faint,” he said.  “Help me—­”

He went to Lang and dropped upon his knees beside him.  The man was unrecognizable.  His head was almost gone.  Philip thrust a hand inside his fang-torn coat—­and pulled out a long envelope.  It was addressed to the master of Adare.  He staggered to his feet, and went to Thoreau.  In his pocket he found the second envelope.  Father George was close beside him as he thrust the two in his own pocket.  He turned to the forest men, who stood like figures turned to stone, gazing upon the scene of the tragedy.

“Carry them—­out there,” said Philip, pointing into the forest.  “And then—­cover the blood with fresh snow.”

He still clung to Father George’s arm as he staggered toward a near birch.

“I feel weak—­dizzy,” he repeated again.  “Help me—­pull off some bark.”

A strange, inquiring look filled the Missioner’s face as he tore down a handful of bark, and at Philip’s request lighted a match.  In an instant the bark was a mass of flame.  Into the fire he put the letters.

“It is best—­to burn their letters,” he said.  Beyond this he gave no explanation.  And Father George asked no questions.

They followed Adare into the tepee.  Josephine was sobbing in her father’s arms.  John Adare’s face was that of a man who had risen out of black despair into day.

“Thank God she has not been harmed,” he said.

Philip knelt beside them, and John Adare gave Josephine into his arms.  He held her close to his breast, whispering only her name—­ and her arms crept up about him.  Adare rose and stood beside Father George.

“I will go back and attend to the wounded, Philip,” he said.  “Jean is one of those hurt.  It isn’t fatal.”

He went out.  Father George was about to follow when Philip motioned him back.

“Will you wait outside for a few minutes?” he asked in a low voice.  “We shall need you—­alone—­Josephine and I.”

And now when they were gone, he raised Josephine’s face, and said: 

“They are all gone, Josephine—­Lang, Thoreau, and the letters.  Lang and Thoreau are dead, and I have burned the letters.  Jean was shot.  He thought he was dying, and he told me the truth that I might better protect you.  Sweetheart, there is nothing more for me to know.  The fight is done.  And Father George is waiting—­out there—­to make us man and wife.  No one will ever know but ourselves—­and Jean.  I will tell Father George that it has been your desire to have a second marriage ceremony performed by him; that we want our marriage to be consecrated by a minister of the forests.  Are you ready, dear?  Shall I call him in?”