For an instant she turned so that the light of
the moon fell full upon her, and in that moment Philip thought
that her eyes had searched him out in the shadow of the rock and
were looking straight into his own. Never had he seen such a
beautiful face among the forest people. He had dreamed of such
faces beside camp-fires, in the deep loneliness of long nights in
the forests, when he had awakened to bring before him visions of
what Eileen Brokaw might have been to him if he had found her one
of these people. He drew himself closer to the rock. The girl
turned again to the edge of the cliff, her slender form
silhouetted against the starlit sky. She leaned over the dog, and
he heard her voice, soft and caressing, but he could not
understand her words. The man lifted his head, and he recognized
the swarthy, clear-cut features of a French half-breed. He moved
away as quietly as he had come.
The girl's voice stopped him.
"And that is Churchill, Pierre--the Churchill you have told me of,
where the ships come in?"
"Yes, that is Churchill, Jeanne."
For a moment there was silence. Then, clear and low, with a wild,
sobbing note in her voice that thrilled Philip, the girl cried:
"And I hate it, Pierre.
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