Jeanne listened to him without a word. She sat as erect as one of
the slender reeds among which the canoe was hidden. Her dark eyes
never left his face. They seemed to have grown darker when he
finished.
"May the great God reward you for what you have done," she said,
in a low voice, quivering with a suppressed passion. "You are
brave, M'sieur Philip--as brave as I have dreamed of men being."
Philip's heart throbbed with delight, and yet he said quickly:
"It isn't THAT. I have done nothing--nothing more than Pierre
would have done for me. But don't you understand? If there is to
be a reward for the little I have given--I could ask for nothing
greater than your confidence and Pierre's. There are reasons, and
perhaps if I told you those you would understand."
"I do understand, without further explanation," answered Jeanne,
in the same low, strained voice. "You fought for Pierre on the
cliff, and you have saved--me. We owe you everything, even our
lives. I understand, M'sieur Philip," she said, more softly,
leaning still nearer to him; "but I can tell you nothing."
"You prefer to leave that to Pierre," he said a little hurt. "I
beg your pardon."
"No, no! I don't mean that!" she cried, quickly.
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