“They will think that we are escaping toward Churchill,” said Philip, gloatingly.  “It is the nearest refuge.  See—­”

One of the canoes was launched, and shot swiftly down the river.  A moment later the second followed.  The dip of paddles died away, and Philip laughed softly and joyously.

“They will hunt for us from now until morning between here and the Bay.  And then they will look for you again in Churchill.”

Philip was conscious, almost without seeing, that Jeanne had bowed her head in her arms and that she was giving way now to the terrific strain which she had been under.  Not until he heard a low sob, which she strove hard to choke back in her throat, did he dare to lean over again and touch her.  Whatever was throbbing in his heart, he knew that he must hide it now.

“You read the letter?” he asked, softly.

“Yes, M’sieur.”

“Then you know—­that you are safe with me!”

There was pride and strength, the ring of triumph in his voice.  It was the voice of a man thrilled by his own strength, by the warmth of a great love, by the knowledge that he was the protector of a creature dearer to him than all else on earth.  The truth of it set Jeanne quivering.  She reached out until in the darkness her two hands found one of Philip’s, and for a moment she held his paddle motionless in midair.

“Thank you, M’sieur,” she whispered.  “I trust you, as I would trust Pierre.”

All the words that women had ever spoken to him were as nothing to those few that fell softly from Jeanne’s lips; in the clinging pressure of her fingers as she uttered them were the concentrated joys of all that he had dreamed of in the touch of women.  He knelt silent, motionless, until her hands left his own.

“I am to take you to Fort o’ God,” he said, fighting to keep the tremble of joy out of his voice.  “And you—­you must guide me.”

“It is far up the Churchill,” she replied, understanding the question he intended.  “It is two hundred miles from the Bay.”

He put his strength into his paddle for ten minutes, and then ran the canoe into shore fully half a mile above the sand-bar.  He stepped out into water up to his knees.

“We must risk a little time here to attend to your injured ankle,” he explained.  “Then you can arrange yourself comfortably among these robes in the bow.  Shall I carry you?”

“You can—­help,” said Jeanne.  She gave him her hand and made an effort to rise.  Instantly she sank back with a sob of pain.

It was strange that her pain should fill him with a wonderful joy.  He knew that she was suffering, that she could not walk or stand alone.  And yet, back at the camp, she had risen in her torture and had come to his rescue.  She could not bear her own weight now, but then she had run to him and had fought for him.  The knowledge that she had done this, and for him, filled him with an exquisite sensation.