Of all the things that had
happened, of all he had learned, this was the most significant.
Every thought ran like a separate powder-flash to a single idea,
to one great, overpowering question. Were Fort o' God and its
people the key to the plot against himself and his company? Was it
the rendezvous of those who were striving to work his ruin? Doubt,
suspicion, almost belief came to him in those few moments, in
spite of himself.
He looked at Jeanne. The gray dawn was breaking, and now light
followed swiftly and dissolved the last mist. In the chill of
early morning, when with the approach of the sun a cold,
uncomfortable sweat rises heavily from the earth and water, Jeanne
had drawn one of the bearskins closely about her. Her head was
bare. Her hair, glistening with damp, clung in heavy masses about
her face. There was a bewitching childishness about her, a
pathetic appeal to him in the forlorn little picture she made--so
helpless, and yet so confident in him. Every energy in him leaped
up in defiance of the revolution which for a few moments had
stirred within him. And Jeanne, as though she had read the working
of his mind, looked straight at him and smiled, with a little
purring note in her throat that took the place of a thousand
words.
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