“He has told me everything, my little Jeanne,” he said again, in a whisper that rose just above the crackling of the pine.  “Everything.  He told me because he knew that I loved you, and because—­”

The words choked in his throat.  At this hesitation Jeanne drew her head back, and, with her hands pressing against his breast, looked into his face.  There were in her eyes the same struggling emotions, but with them now there came also a sweet faltering, a piteous appeal to him, a faith that rose above her terrors, and the tremble of her lips was like that of a crying child.  He drew her face back, and kissed the quivering lips, and suddenly he felt the strain against him give way, and Jeanne’s head sobbed upon his breast.  In that moment, looking where the roaring pine sent its pinnacles of flame leaping up into the night, a word of thanks, of prayer, rose mutely to his lips, and he held Jeanne more closely, and whispered over and over again in his happiness, “Jeanne—­ Jeanne—­my sweetheart Jeanne.”

Jeanne’s sobs grew less and less, and Philip strengthened himself to tell her the terrible news of Pierre.  He knew that in the selfishness of his own joy he had already wasted precious minutes, and very gently he took Jeanne’s wet face between his two hands and turned it a little toward his own.

“Pierre has told me everything, Jeanne,” he repeated.  “Everything —­from the day he found you many years ago to the day your father returned to torture you.”  He spoke calmly, even as he felt her shiver in pain against him.  “To-night there was a little trouble down in the camp, dear.  Pierre is wounded, and wants you to come to him.  Thorpe—­is—­dead.”

For an instant Philip was frightened at what happened.  Jeanne’s breath ceased.  There seemed to be not a quiver of life in her body, and she lay in his arms as if dead.  And then, suddenly, there came from her a terrible cry, and she wrenched herself free, and stood a step from him, her face as white as death.

“He—­is—­dead—­”

“Yes, he is dead.”

“And Pierre—­Pierre killed him?”

Philip held out his arms, but Jeanne did not seem to see them.  She saw the answer in his face.

“And—­Pierre—­is—­hurt—­” she went on, never taking her wide, luminous eyes from his face.

Before he answered Philip took her trembling hands in his own, as though he would lighten the blow by the warmth and touch of his great love.

“Yes, he is hurt, Jeanne,” he said.  “We must hurry, for I am afraid there is no time to lose.”

“He is—­dying?”

“I fear so, Jeanne.”

He turned before the look that came into her face, and led her about the circle of fire to the side of the mountain that sloped down into the plain.  Suddenly Jeanne stopped for an instant.  Her fingers tightened about his.  Her face was turned back into the endless desolation of night and forest that lay to the south and west.  Far out—­a mile—­two miles—­an answering fire was breaking the black curtain that hid all things beyond them.  Jeanne lifted her face to him.  Grief and love, pain and joy, shone in her eyes.