His
English was excellent, and as he spoke he bowed low to Philip. "It
is I whom you must pardon, M'sieur--for betraying so much
caution."
Philip held out his hand.
"My name is Whittemore--Philip Whittemore," he said. "I'm staying
at Churchill until the ship comes in and--and I hope you'll let me
sit here on the rock."
For an instant Pierre's fingers gripped his hand, and he bowed low
again like a courtier. Philip saw that he, too, wore the same big,
old-fashioned cuffs, and that it was not a knife that hung at his
belt, but a short rapier.
"And I am Pierre--Pierre Couchee," he said. "And this--is my
sister--Jeanne. We do not belong to Fort Churchill, but come from
Fort o' God. Good night, M'sieur!"
The girl had taken a step back, and now she swept him a courtesy
so low that her fallen hair streamed over her shoulders. She spoke
no word, but passed quickly with Pierre up the rock, and while
Philip stood stunned and speechless they disappeared swiftly into
the white gloom of the night.
Mutely he gazed after them. For a long time he stood staring
beyond the rocks, marveling at the strangeness of this thing that
had happened. An hour before he had stood with bared head over the
ancient dead at Churchill, and now, on the rock, he had seen the
resurrection of what he had dreamed those dead to be in life.
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