Pierre’s hands groped eagerly for Philip’s.

“M’sieur—­you will tell me—­if I must die?” he pleaded.  “There are things you must know—­about Jeanne—­if I go.  It will not hurt.  I am not afraid.  You will tell me—­”

“Yes,” said Philip.

He could scarcely speak, and while MacDougall was at work stood so that Pierre could not see his face.  There was a sobbing note in Pierre’s breath, and he knew what it meant.  He had heard that same sound more than once when he had shot moose and caribou through the lungs.  Five minutes later MacDougall straightened himself.  He had done all that he could.  Philip followed him to the back part of the room.  Almost without sound his lips framed the words, “Will he die?”

“Yes,” said MacDougall.  “There is no hope.  He may last until morning.”

Philip took a stool and sat down beside Pierre.  There was no fear in the wounded man’s face.  His eyes were clear.  His voice was a little stronger.

“I will die, M’sieur,” he said, calmly.

“I am afraid so, Pierre.”

Pierre’s damp fingers closed about his own.  His eyes shone softly, and he smiled.

“It is best,” he said, “and I am glad.  I feel quite well.  I will live for some time?”

“Perhaps for a few hours, Pierre.”

“God is good to me,” breathed Pierre, devoutly.  “I thank Him.  Are we alone?”

“Do you wish to be alone?”

“Yes.”

Philip motioned to MacDougall, who went into the little office room.

“I will die,” whispered Pierre, softly, as though he were achieving a triumph.  “And everything would die with me, M’sieur, if I did not know that you love Jeanne, and that you will care for her when I am gone.  M’sieur, I have told you that I love her.  I have worshiped her, next to my God.  I die happy, knowing that I am dying for her.  If I had lived I would have suffered, for I love alone.  She does not dream that my love is different from hers, for I have never told her.  It would have given her pain.  And you will never let her know.  As Our Dear Lady is my witness, M’sieur, she has loved but one man, and that man is you.”

Pierre gave a great breath.  A warm flood seemed suddenly to engulf Philip.  Did he hear right?  Could he believe?  He fell upon his knees beside Pierre and brushed his dark hair back from his face.

“Yes, I love her,” he said, softly.  “But I did not know that she loved me.”

“It is not strange,” said Pierre, looking straight into his eyes.  “But you will understand—­now—­M’sieur.  I seem to have strength, and I will tell you all—­from the beginning.  Perhaps I have done wrong.  You will know—­soon.  You remember Jeanne told you the story of the baby—­of the woman frozen in the snow.  That was the beginning of the long fight—­for me.  This—­what I am about to tell you—­will be sacred to you, M’sieur?”

“As my life,” said Philip.