Shooting pains passed like flashes of
electricity through his body. His right arm was numb and stiff,
and he found that it was thickly bandaged. His head ached, his
legs could hardly support him. He went to raise his left hand to
his head, but stopped it in front of him, while a slow smile of
understanding crept over his face. It was swollen and covered with
livid bruises. He wondered if his body looked that way, and sank
down exhausted upon his balsam bed. A minute later Pierre returned
with a cup of broth in his hand.
Philip looked at him with less feverish eyes now. There was an
unaccountable change in the half-breed's appearance, as there had
been in Jeanne's. His face seemed thinner. There was a deep gloom
in his eyes, a dejected droop to his shoulders. Philip accepted
the broth, and drank it slowly, without speaking. He felt
strengthened. Then he looked steadily at Pierre. The old pride had
fallen from Pierre like a mask. His eyes dropped under Philip's
gaze.
Philip held up a hand.
"Pierre!"
The half-breed grasped it and waited. His lips tightened.
"What is the matter?" demanded Philip. "What has happened to
Jeanne? You say she was not hurt--"
"By the rocks, M'sieur," interrupted Pierre, quickly, kneeling
beside Philip.
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