Philip heard her speak, but she
did not move her eyes from his face. It was the tableau of a
moment, tense, breathless. The only thing that moved was the
shimmer of steel. Philip caught the gleam of it under the half-
breed's hand.
"Don't do that, M'sieur," he said, pointing at the other's belt.
"I am sorry that I disturbed you. Sometimes I come up here--alone
--to smoke my pipe and listen to the sea down there. I heard you
say that you hate Churchill, and I hate it. That is why I spoke."
He turned to the girl.
"I am sorry. I beg your pardon."
He looked at her with new wonderment. She had tossed back her
loose hair, and stood tall and straight in the moonlight, her dark
eyes gazing at him now calmly and without affright. She was
dressed in rich yellow buckskin, as soft as chamois. Her throat
was bare. A deep collar of lace fell over her shoulders. One hand,
raised to her breast, revealed a wide gauntlet cuff of red or
purple plush, of a fashion two centuries old. Her lips were
parted, and he saw the faintest gleam of her white teeth, the
quick rising and falling of her bosom. He had spoken directly to
her, yet she gave no sign of having heard him.
"You startled us, that is all, M'sieur," said Pierre, quietly.
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