“Because of you,” laughed Philip.  “I am half convinced that you take a wicked delight in bewildering me.”

He found Jeanne a comfortable spot on the bank, brought her one of the bearskins, and began collecting a pile of dry reeds and wood.

“I am sure of it,” he went on.  He struck a match, and the reeds flared into flame, lighting up his face,

Jeanne gave a startled cry.

“You are hurt!” she exclaimed.  “Your face is red with blood.”

Philip jumped back.

“I had forgotten that.  I’ll wash my face.”

He waded into the edge of the water and began scrubbing himself.  When he returned, Jeanne looked at him closely.  The fire illumined her pale face.  She had gathered her beautiful hair in a thick braid, which fell over her shoulder.  She appeared lovelier to him now than when he had first seen her in the night-glow on the cliff.  She was dressed the same.  He observed that the filmy bit of lace about her slender throat was torn, and that one side of her short buckskin skirt was covered with half-dried splashes of mud.  His blood rose at these signs of the rough treatment of those who had attacked her.  It reached fever-heat when, coming nearer, he saw a livid bruise on her forehead close up under her hair.

“They struck you?” he demanded.

He stood with his hands clenched.  She smiled up at him.

“It was my fault,” she explained.  “I’m afraid I gave them a good deal of trouble on the cliff.”

She laughed outright at the fierceness in Philip’s face, and so sweet was the sound of it to him that his hands relaxed and he laughed with her.

“So help me, you’re a brick!” he cried.

“There are pots and kettles and coffee and things to eat in the pack, M’sieur Philip,” reminded Jeanne, softly, as he still remained staring down upon her.

Philip turned to the canoe, with a laugh that was like a boy’s.  He threw the pack at Jeanne’s feet and unstrapped it.  Together they sorted out the things they wanted, and Philip cut crotched sticks on which he suspended two pots of water over the fire.  He found himself whistling as he gathered an armful of wood along the shore.  When he came back Jeanne had opened a bottle of olives and was nibbling at one, while she held out another to him on the end of a fork.

“I love olives,” she said.  “Won’t you have one?”

He accepted the thing, and ate it joyously, though he hated olives.

“Where did you acquire the taste?” he asked.  “I thought it took a course at college to make one like ’em.”

“I’ve been to college,” answered Jeanne, quietly.  There was a glow in her cheeks now, a swift flash of tantalizing fun in her eyes, as she fished after another olive.  “I have been a student—­a TENERIS Annis,” she added, and he stood stupefied.

“That’s Latin!” he gasped.

“Oui, M’sieur.  Wollen Sie noch eine Olive haben?”