But--what was he to Jeanne?
He left the fire and went to the pile of balsam which he had
spread out between two rocks for his bed. He lay down and pulled
Pierre's blanket over him, but his fatigue and his desire for
sleep seemed to have left him, and it was a long time before
slumber finally drove from him the thought of what he had done.
After that he did not move. He heard none of the sounds of the
night. A little owl, the devil-witch, screamed horribly overhead
and awakened Jeanne, who sat up for a few moments in her balsam
bed, white-faced and shivering. But Philip slept. Long afterward
something warm awakened him, and he opened his eyes, thinking that
it was the glow of the fire in his face. It was the sun. He heard
a sound which brought him quickly into consciousness of day. It
was Jeanne singing softly over beyond the rocks.
He had dreaded the coming of morning, when he would have to face
Jeanne. His guilt hung heavily upon him. But the sound of her
voice, low and sweet, filled with the carroling happiness of a
bird, brought a glad smile to his lips. After all, Jeanne had
understood him. She had forgiven him, if she had not forgotten.
For the first time he noticed the height of the sun, and he sat
bolt upright.
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