“I must carry you,” he said, speaking to her with the calm decision that he might have voiced to a little child.  His tone reassured her, and she made no remonstrance when he lifted her in his arms.  For a brief moment she lay against him again, and when he lowered her upon the bank his hand accidentally touched the soft warmth of her face.

“My specialty is sprains,” he said, speaking a little lightly to raise her spirits for the instant’s ordeal through which she must pass.  “I have doctored half a dozen during the last three months.  You must take off your moccasin and your stocking, and I will make a bandage.”

He drew a big handkerchief from his pocket and dipped it in the water.  Then he searched along the shore for a dozen paces, until he found an Indian willow.  With his knife he scraped off a handful of bark, soaked it in water, crushed it between his hands, and returned to her.  Jeanne’s little foot lay naked in the starlight.

“It will hurt just a moment,” he said, gently.  “But it is the only cure.  To-morrow it will be strong enough for you to stand upon.  Can you bear a little hurt?”

He knelt before her and looked up, scarce daring to touch her foot before she spoke.

“I may cry,” she said.

Her voice fluttered, but it gave him permission.  He folded the wet handkerchief in the form of a bandage, with the willow bark spread over it.  Then, very gently, he seized her foot in one hand and her ankle in the other.

“It will hurt just a little,” he soothed.  “Only a moment.”

His fingers tightened.  He put into them the whole strength of his grip, pulling downward on the foot and upward on the ankle until, with a low cry, Jeanne flung her hands over his.

“There, it is done,” he laughed, nervously.  He wrapped the bandage around so tightly that Jeanne could not move her foot, and tied it with strips of cloth.  Then he turned to the canoe while she drew on her stocking and moccasin.

He was trembling.  A maddening joy pounded in his brain.  Jeanne’s voice came to him sweetly, with a shyness in it that made him feel like a boy.  He was glad that the night concealed his face.  He would have given worlds to have seen Jeanne’s.

“I am ready,” she said.

He carried her to the bow of the canoe and fixed her among the robes, arranging a place for her head so that she might sleep if she wished.  For the first time the light was so that he could see her plainly as she nestled back in the place made for her.  Their eyes met for a moment.

“You must sleep,” he urged.  “I shall paddle all night.”

“You are sure that Pierre is not badly hurt?” she asked, tremulously.  “You—­you would not—­keep the truth from me?”

“He was not more than stunned,” assured Philip.  “It is impossible that his wound should prove serious.  Only there was no time to lose, and I came without him.  He will follow us soon.”