He took his position in the stern, and Jeanne lay back among the bearskins.  For a long time after that Philip paddled in silence.  He had hoped that Jeanne would give him an opportunity to continue their conversation, in spite of his advice to her to secure what rest she could.  But there came no promise from the bow of the canoe.  After half an hour he guessed that Jeanne had taken him at his word, and was asleep.

It was disappointing, and yet there came a pleasurable throb with his disappointment.  Jeanne trusted him.  She was sleeping under his protection as sweetly as a child.  Fear of her enemies no longer kept her awake or filled her with terror.  This night, under these stars, with the wilderness all about them, she had given herself into his keeping.  His cheeks burned.  He dipped his paddle noiselessly, so that he might not interrupt her slumber.  Each moment added to the fullness of his joy, and he wished that he might only see her face, hidden in the darkness of her hair and the bear-robes.

The silence no longer seemed a silence to him.  It was filled with the beating of his heart, the singing of his love, a gentle sigh now and then that came like a deeper breath between Jeanne’s sweet lips.  It was a silence that pulsated with a voiceless and intoxicating life for him, and he was happy.  In these moments, when even their voices were stilled, Jeanne belonged to him, and to him alone.  He could feel the warmth of her presence.  He felt still the thrill of her breast against his own, the touch of her hair upon his lips, the gentle clinging of her arms.  The spirit of her moved, and sat awake, and talked with him, just as the old spirit of his dreams had communed with him a thousand times in his loneliness.  Dreams were at an end.  Now had come reality.

He looked up into the sky.  The moon had dropped below the southwestern forests, and there were only the stars above him, filling a gray-blue vault in which there was not even the lingering mist of a cloud.  It was a beautifully clear night, and he wondered how the light fell so that it did not reveal Jeanne in her nest.  The thought that came to him then set his heart tingling and made his face radiant.  Even the stars were guarding Jeanne, and refused to disclose the mystery of her slumber.  He laughed within himself.  His being throbbed, and suddenly a voice seemed to cry softly, trembling in its joy: 

“Jeanne!  Jeanne!  My beloved Jeanne!”

With horror Philip caught himself too late.  He had spoken the words aloud.  For an instant reality had transformed itself into the old dream, and his dream-spirit had called to its mate for the first time in words.  Appalled at what he had said, Philip bent over and listened.  He heard Jeanne’s breathing.  It was deeper than before.  She was surely asleep!

He straightened himself and resumed his paddling.  He was glad now that he had spoken.  Jeanne seemed nearer to him after those words.