“Then why—­why in the name of that God do you look like this?” demanded Philip.  “You saw her go into the tent.  She is disheartened, hopeless because of something that I can’t guess at, cold and shivering and white because of a fear of something.  She is a woman.  You are a man.  Are you afraid?”

“No, not afraid, M’sieur.  It is her grief that hurts me, not fear.  If it would help her I would let you take this knife at my side and cut me into pieces so small that the birds could carry them away.  I know what you mean.  You think I am not a fighter.  Our Lady in Heaven, if fighting could only save her!”

“And it cannot?”

“No, M’sieur.  Nothing can save her.  You can help, but you cannot save her.  I believe that nothing like this terrible thing that has come to her has happened before since the world began.  It is a mistake that it has come once.  The Great God would not let it happen twice.”

He spoke calmly.  Philip could find no words with which to reply.  His hand slipped from Jean’s arm to his hand, and their fingers gripped.  Thus for a space they stood.  Philip broke the silence.

“I love her, Jean,” he spoke softly.

“Every one loves her, M’sieur.  All our forest people call her ‘L’Ange.’”

“And still you say there is no hope?”

“None.”

“Not even—­if we fight—?”

Jean’s fingers tightened about his like cords of steel.

“We may kill, M’sieur, but that will not save hearts crushed like —­See!—­like I crush these ash berries under my foot!  I tell you again, nothing like this has ever happened before since the world began, and nothing like it will ever happen again!”

Steadily Philip looked into Jean’s eyes.

“You have seen something of the world, Jean?”

“A good deal, M’sieur.  For seven years I went to school at Montreal, and prepared myself for the holy calling of Missioner.  That was many years ago.  I am now simply Jean Jacques Croisset, of the forests.”

“Then you know—­you must know, that where there is life there is hope,” argued Philip eagerly, “I have promised not to pry after her secret, to fight for her only as she tells me to fight.  But if I knew, Jean.  If I knew what this trouble is—­how and where to fight!  Is this knowledge—­impossible?”

“Impossible, M’sieur!”

Slowly Jean withdrew his hand.

“Don’t take it that way, man,” exclaimed Philip quickly.  “I’m not ferreting for her secret now.  Only I’ve got to know—­is it impossible for her to tell me?”

“As impossible, M’sieur, as it would be for me.  And Our Lady herself could not make me do that if I heard Her voice commanding me out of Heaven.  All that I can do is to wait, and watch, and guard.  And all that you can do, M’sieur, is to play the part she has asked of you.  In doing that, and doing it well, you will keep the last bit of life in her heart from being trampled out.  If you love her”—­he picked up a tepee pole before he finished, and then, said—­“you will do as you have promised!”