ith
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."

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