Jeanne was the first to see him when he came out of the tent. She
was sitting beside a small balsam shelter, and Pierre was busy
over a fire, with his back turned to them. For a moment the two
looked at each other in silence, and then Jeanne came toward him,
holding out one of her hands. He saw that she was making a strong
effort to appear natural, but there was something in his own face
that made her attempt a poor one. The hand that she gave him
trembled. Her lips quivered. For the first time her eyes failed to
meet his own in their limpid frankness.
"Pierre has told you what happened," she said. "It was a miracle,
and I owe you my life. I have had my punishment for being so
careless." She tried to laugh at him now, and drew her hand away.
"I wasn't beaten against the rocks, like you, but--"
"It was terrible," interrupted Philip, remembering Pierre's words,
and eager to put her at ease. "You have stood up under it
beautifully. I am afraid of after effects. You must not collapse
under the strain now."
Pierre heard his last words and a smile flashed over his dark face
as he encountered Philip's glance.
"It is true, M'sieur," he said. "I know of no other woman who
would have stood up under such a thing as Jeanne has done.
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