"Your face is red with blood."
Philip jumped back.
"I had forgotten that. I'll wash my face."
He waded into the edge of the water and began scrubbing himself.
When he returned, Jeanne looked at him closely. The fire illumined
her pale face. She had gathered her beautiful hair in a thick
braid, which fell over her shoulder. She appeared lovelier to him
now than when he had first seen her in the night-glow on the
cliff. She was dressed the same. He observed that the filmy bit of
lace about her slender throat was torn, and that one side of her
short buckskin skirt was covered with half-dried splashes of mud.
His blood rose at these signs of the rough treatment of those who
had attacked her. It reached fever-heat when, coming nearer, he
saw a livid bruise on her forehead close up under her hair.
"They struck you?" he demanded.
He stood with his hands clenched. She smiled up at him.
"It was my fault," she explained. "I'm afraid I gave them a good
deal of trouble on the cliff."
She laughed outright at the fierceness in Philip's face, and so
sweet was the sound of it to him that his hands relaxed and he
laughed with her.
"So help me, you're a brick!" he cried.
"There are pots and kettles and coffee and things to eat in the
pack, M'sieur Philip," reminded Jeanne, softly, as he still
remained staring down upon her.
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