“Despair will open up and swallow you to the depths of your soul,” interrupted Jean gently.  “Return to your room, M’sieur.  Sleep.  Fight for the love that will be yours in Heaven, as I live for my Iowaka’s.  For that love will be yours, up there.  Josephine has loved but one man, and that is you.  I have watched and I have seen.  But in this world she can never be more to you than she is now, for what she told you to-night is the least of the terrible thing that is eating away her soul on earth.  Good-night, M’sieur!”

Straight out into the moonlight Jean walked, head erect, in the face of the forest.  And Philip stood looking after him over the little garden of crosses until he had disappeared.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Alone and with the deadening depression that had come with Jean’s last words, Philip returned to his room.  He had made no effort to follow the half-breed who had shamed him to the quick beside the grave of his wife.  He felt no pleasure, no sense of exultation, that his suspicions of Croisset’s feelings toward Josephine had been dispelled.  Since the hour MacTavish had died up in the madness of Arctic night, deep and hopeless gloom had not laid its hand more heavily upon him,

He bolted his door, drew the curtain to the window, and added a bit of wood to the few embers that still remained alive in the grate.  Then he sat down, with his face to the fire.  The dry birch burst into flame, and for half an hour he sat staring into it with almost unseeing eyes.  He knew that Jean would keep his word—­that even now he was possibly on the fresh trail that led through the forest.  For him there was something about the half-breed now that was almost omniscient.  In him Philip had seen incarnated the things which made him feel like a dwarf in manhood.  In those few moments close to the graves, Jean had risen above the world.  And Philip believed in him.  Yet with his belief, his optimism did not quite die.

In the same breath Jean had told him that he could never possess Josephine, and that Josephine loved him.  This in itself, Jean’s assurance of her love, was sufficient to arouse a spirit like his with new hope.  At last he went to bed, and in spite of his mental and physical excitement of the night, he fell asleep.

John Adare did not fail in his promise to rouse Philip early in the day.  When Philip jumped out of bed in response to Adare’s heavy knock at the door, he judged that it was not later than seven o’clock, and the room was still dark.  Adare’s voice came booming through the thick panels in reply to Philip’s assurance that he was getting up.

“This is the third time,” he cried.  “I’ve cracked the door trying to rouse you.  And we’ve got a caribou porterhouse two inches thick waiting for us.”

The giant was walking back and forth in the big living-room when Philip joined him a few minutes later.  He wore an Indian-made jacket and was smoking a big pipe.  That he had been up for some time was evident from the logs fully ablaze in the fireplace.  He rubbed his hands briskly as Philip entered.  Every atom of him disseminated good cheer.