Pierre was silent for a few moments.  He seemed to be gathering his thoughts, so that he could tell in few words the tragedy of years.  Two brilliant spots burned in his cheeks, and the hand which Philip held was hot.

“Years ago—­twenty, almost—­there came a man to Fort o’ God,” he began.  “He was very young, and from the south.  D’Arcambal was then middle-aged, but his wife was young and beautiful.  Jeanne says that you saw her picture—­against the wall.  D’Arcambal worshiped her.  She was his life.  You understand what happened.  The man from the south—­the young wife—­they went away together.”

Pierre coughed.  A bit of blood reddened his lips.  Philip wiped it away gently with his handkerchief, hiding the stain from Pierre’s eyes.

“Yes,” he said, “I understand.”

“It broke D’Arcambal’s heart,” resumed Pierre.  “He destroyed everything that had belonged to the woman.  He turned her picture to the wall.  His love turned slowly to hate.  It was two years later that I came over the barrens one night and found Jeanne and her dead mother.  The woman, M’sieur—­Jeanne’s mother—­was D’Arcambal’s wife.  She was returning to Fort o’ God, and God’s justice overtook her almost at its doors.  I carried little Jeanne to my Indian mother, and then made ready to carry the woman to her husband.  It was then that a terrible thought came to me.  Jeanne was not D’Arcambal’s daughter.  She was a part of the man who had stolen his wife.  I worshiped the little Jeanne even then, and for her sake my mother and I swore secrecy, and buried the woman.  Then we took the babe to Fort o’ God as a stranger.  We saved her.  We saved D’Arcambal.  No one ever knew.”

Pierre stopped for breath.

“Was it best?”

“It was glorious,” said Philip, trembling.

“It would have come out right—­in the end—­if the father had not returned,” said Pierre.  “I must hurry, M’sieur, for it hurts me now to talk.  He came first a year ago, and revealed himself to Jeanne.  He told her everything.  D’Arcambal was rich; Jeanne and I both had money.  He threatened—­we bought him off.  We fought to keep the terrible thing from D’Arcambal.  Our money sent him away for a time.  Then he returned.  It was news of him I brought up the river to Jeanne—­from Churchill.  I offered to kill him—­but Jeanne would not listen to that.  But the Great God willed that I should.  I killed him to-night—­over there!”

A great joy surged above the grief in Philip’s heart.  He could not speak, but pressed Pierre’s hand harder, and looked into his glistening eyes.

Pierre’s next words broke his silence, and wrung a low cry from his lips.

“M’sieur, this man Thorpe—­Jeanne’s father—­is the man whom you know as Lord Fitzhugh Lee.”

He coughed violently, and with sudden fear Philip lifted his head so that it rested against his shoulder.  After a moment he lowered it again.  His face was as white as Pierre’s after that sudden fit of coughing.