Philip's
astonishment still held him motionless.
"A little while ago you asked me if I would tell you anything but
--but--the truth," he stammered, trying to find words to express
himself, "and this--"
"Is the truth," interrupted Jeanne, a little coolly. "Why should I
tell you an untruth, M'sieur?"
Philip had asked himself that same question shortly after their
first meeting on the cliff. And now in the girl's question there
was sounded a warning for him to be more discreet.
"I did not mean that," he cried, quickly. "Please forgive me.
Only--it is so wonderful, so almost IMPOSSIBLE to believe. Do you
know what I thought of for three-quarters of the night after I
left you and Pierre on the rock? It was of years--centuries ago. I
put you and Pierre back there. It seemed as though you had come to
me from out of another world, that you had strayed from the
chivalry and beauty of some royal court, that a queen's painter
might have known and made a picture of you, as I saw you there,
but that to me you were only the vision of a dream. And now you
say that you have always lived here!"
He saw Jeanne's eyes glowing. She had lifted herself from among
the bearskins and was leaning toward him.
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