And then a voice came, quite near: 

“Ho, M’sieur Philip!”

It was Jean!  Philip’s hand relaxed its clutch at Captain’s collar, and almost a groan of relief fell from his lips.  Not until Jean’s voice came to him, quiet and unexcited, did he realize under what a strain he had been.

“I am here,” he said, moving slowly out of the pit.

On the edge of it, where the light shone down through an opening in the spruce tops, he found Jean.  Josephine was not with him.  Eagerly Philip caught the other’s arm, and looked beyond him.

“Where is she?”

“Safe,” replied Jean.  “I left her at Adare House, and came to you.  I came quickly, for I was afraid that some one might shout in the night, or fire a shot.  Our business was done quickly to-night, M’sieur!”

He was looking straight into Philip’s eyes, a cold, steady look that told Philip what he meant before he had spoken the words.

“Our business was done quickly!” he repeated.  “And it is coming!”

“The fight?”

“Yes.”

“And Josephine knows?  She understands?”

“No, M’sieur.  Only you and I know.  Listen:  To-night I kneeled down in darkness in my room, and prayed that the soul of my Iowaka might come to me.  I felt her near, M’sieur!  It is strange—­you may not believe—­but some day you may understand.  And we were there together for an hour, and I pleaded for her forgiveness, for the time had come when I must break my oath to save our Josephine.  And I could hear her speak to me, M’sieur, as plainly as you hear that breath of wind in the tree-tops yonder.  Praise the Holy Father, I heard her!  And so we are going to fight the great fight, M’sieur.”

Philip waited.  After a moment Jean said, as quietly as if he were asking the time of day: 

“Do you know whom we went out to see last night—­and met again to-night?” he asked.

“I have guessed,” replied Philip.  His face was white and hard.

Jean nodded.

“I think you have guessed correctly, M’sieur.  It was the baby’s father!”

And then, in amazement, he stared at Philip.  For the other had flung off his arm, and his eyes were blazing in the starlight.

“And you have had all this trouble, all this mystery, all this fear because of him?” he demanded.  His voice rang out in a harsh laugh.  “You met him last night, and again to-night, and let him go?  You, Jean Croisset?  The one man in the whole world I would give my life to meet—­and you afraid of him?  My God, if that is all—­”

Jean interrupted him, laying a firm, quiet hand on his arm.

“What would you do, M’sieur?”

“Kill him,” breathed Philip.  “Kill him by inches, slowly, torturingly.  And to-night, Jean.  He is near.  I will follow him, and do what you have been afraid to do.”

“Yes, that is it, I have been afraid to kill him,” replied Jean.  Philip saw the starlight on the half-breed’s face.  And he knew, as he looked, that he had called Jean Jacques Croisset the one thing in the world that he could not be:  a coward.