"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.
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