He
had never seen people like Pierre and Jeanne. Their strange dress,
the rapier at Pierre's side, his courtly bow, the low, graceful
courtesy that the girl had made him, all carried him back to the
days of the old pictures that hung in the factor's room at
Churchill, when high-blooded gallants came into the wilderness
with their swords at their sides, wearing the favors of court
ladies next their hearts. Pierre, standing there on the rock, with
his hand on his rapier, might have been Grosellier himself, the
prince's favorite, and Jeanne--
Something white on the rock near where the girl had been sitting
caught Philip's eyes. In a moment he held in his fingers a small
handkerchief and a broad ribbon of finely knit lace. In her haste
to get away she had forgotten these things. He was about to run to
the crest of the cliff and call loudly for Pierre Couchee when he
held the handkerchief and the lace close to his face and the
delicate perfume of heliotrope stopped him. There was something
familiar about it, something that held him wondering and
mystified, until he knew that he had lost the opportunity to
recall Pierre and his companion. He looked at the handkerchief
more, closely. It was a dainty fabric, so soft that it gave barely
the sensation of touch when he crushed it in the palm of his hand.
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