For many minutes Philip sat motionless where Pierre had left him.  The earth seemed suddenly to have dropped from under his feet, leaving him in an illimitable chaos of mind.  Gregson had deserted him, with almost no word of explanation, and he would have staked his life upon Gregson’s loyalty.  Under other circumstances his unaccountable action would have been a serious blow.  But now it was overshadowed by the mysterious change that had come over Jeanne.  A few hours before she had been happy, laughing and singing as they drew nearer to Fort o’ God; each hour had added to the brightness of her eyes, the gladness in her voice.  The change had come with Pierre. and at the bottom of it all was Lord Fitzhugh Lee.  Pierre had warned him not to mention Lord Fitzhugh’s name to Jeanne, and yet only a short time before he had spoken the name boldly before Jeanne, and she had betrayed no sign of recognition or of fear.  More than that, she had assured him that she had never heard the name before, that it was not known at Fort o’ God.

Philip bowed his head in his hands, and his fingers clutched in his hair.  What did it all mean?  He went back to the scene on the cliff, when Pierre had roused himself at the sound of the name; he thought of all that had happened since Gregson had come to Churchill, and the result was a delirium of thought that made his temples throb.  He was sure—­now—­of but few things.  He loved Jeanne—­loved her more than he had ever dreamed that he could love a woman, and he believed that it would be impossible for her to tell him a falsehood.  He was confident that she had never heard of Lord Fitzhugh until Pierre overtook them in their flight from Churchill.  He could see but one thing to do, and that was to follow Pierre’s advice, accepting his promise that in the end everything would come out right.  He had faith in Pierre.

He rose to his feet and went to the tent-flap.  An embarrassing thought came to him, and he stopped, a flush of feverish color suddenly mounting into his pale cheeks.  He had kissed Jeanne in the chasm, when death thundered in their faces.  He had kissed her again and again, and in those kisses he had declared his love.  He was glad, and yet sorry; the knowledge that she must know of his love filled him with happiness, and yet with it there was the feeling that it would place a distance between him and Jeanne.

Jeanne was the first to see him when he came out of the tent.  She was sitting beside a small balsam shelter, and Pierre was busy over a fire, with his back turned to them.  For a moment the two looked at each other in silence, and then Jeanne came toward him, holding out one of her hands.  He saw that she was making a strong effort to appear natural, but there was something in his own face that made her attempt a poor one.  The hand that she gave him trembled.  Her lips quivered.  For the first time her eyes failed to meet his own in their limpid frankness.

“Pierre has told you what happened,” she said.  “It was a miracle, and I owe you my life.  I have had my punishment for being so careless.”  She tried to laugh at him now, and drew her hand away.  “I wasn’t beaten against the rocks, like you, but—­”