Philip bowed his head in his hands, and his fingers clutched in
his hair. What did it all mean? He went back to the scene on the
cliff, when Pierre had roused himself at the sound of the name; he
thought of all that had happened since Gregson had come to
Churchill, and the result was a delirium of thought that made his
temples throb. He was sure--now--of but few things. He loved
Jeanne--loved her more than he had ever dreamed that he could love
a woman, and he believed that it would be impossible for her to
tell him a falsehood. He was confident that she had never heard of
Lord Fitzhugh until Pierre overtook them in their flight from
Churchill. He could see but one thing to do, and that was to
follow Pierre's advice, accepting his promise that in the end
everything would come out right. He had faith in Pierre.
He rose to his feet and went to the tent-flap. An embarrassing
thought came to him, and he stopped, a flush of feverish color
suddenly mounting into his pale cheeks. He had kissed Jeanne in
the chasm, when death thundered in their faces. He had kissed her
again and again, and in those kisses he had declared his love. He
was glad, and yet sorry; the knowledge that she must know of his
love filled him with happiness, and yet with it there was the
feeling that it would place a distance between him and Jeanne.
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