Close to the tent Philip sat down, smoked his pipe, and waited.  Not only had the developments of the last few minutes been disappointing to him, but they had added still more to his bewilderment.  He had expected and hoped for immediate physical action, something that would at least partially clear away the cloud of mystery.  And at this moment, when he was expecting things to happen, there had appeared this new factor, Jean, to change the current of excitement under which Josephine was fighting.  Who could Jean be? he asked himself.  And why should his appearance at this time stir Josephine to a pitch of emotion only a little less tense than that roused by her fears of a short time before?  She had told him that Jean was part Indian, part French, and that he “belonged to her.”  And his coming, he felt sure, was of tremendous significance to her.

He waited impatiently.  It seemed a long time before he heard voices and the sound of footsteps over the edge of the coulee.  He rose to his feet, and a moment later Josephine and her companion appeared not more than a dozen paces from him.  His first glance was at the man.  In that same instant Jean Croisset stopped in his tracks and looked at Philip.  Steadily, and apparently oblivious of Josephine’s presence, they measured each other, the half-breed bent a little forward, the lithe alertness of a cat in his posture, his eyes burning darkly.  He was a man whose age Philip could not guess.  It might have been forty.  Probably it was close to that.  He was bareheaded, and his long coarse hair, black as an Indian’s, was shot with gray.  At first it would have been difficult to name the blood that ran strongest in his veins.  His hair, the thinness of his face and body, his eyes, and the tense position in which he had paused, were all Indian.  Then, above these things, Philip saw the French.  Swiftly it became the dominant part of the man before him, and he was not surprised when Jean advanced with outstretched hand, and said: 

“M’sieur Philip, I am Jean—­Jean Jacques Croisset—­and I am glad you have come.”

The words were spoken for Philip alone, and where she stood Josephine did not catch the strange flash of fire in the half-breed’s eyes, nor did she hear his still more swiftly spoken words:  “I am glad it is you that chance has sent to us, M’sieur Weyman!”

The two men gripped hands.  There was something about Jean that inspired Philip’s confidence, and as he returned the half-breed’s greeting his eyes looked for a moment over the other’s shoulder and rested on Josephine.  He was astonished at the change in her.  Evidently Jean had not brought her bad news.  She held the pages of an open letter in her hand, and as she caught Philip’s look she smiled at him with a gladness which he had not seen in her face before.  She came forward quickly, and placed a hand on his arm.

“Jean’s coming was a surprise,” she explained.  “I did not expect him for a number of days, and I dreaded what he might have to tell me.  But this letter has brought me fresh cause for thankfulness, though it may enslave you a little longer to your vows of knighthood.  We start for home this afternoon.  Are you ready?”