He was dressed in soft buckskin,
like Pierre. His hair and beard grew in wild disorder, and from
under shaggy eyebrows there burned a pair of deep-set eyes of the
color of blue steel. He was a man to inspire awe; old, and yet
young; white-haired, gray-faced, and yet a giant. One might have
expected from between his bearded lips a voice as thrilling as his
appearance; a rumbling voice, deep-chested, sonorous--and it would
have caused no surprise. It was the voice that surprised Philip
more than the man. It was low, and trembling with an agitation
which even strength and pride could not control.
"Philip Whittemore, I am Henry d'Arcambal. May God bless you for
what you have done!"
A hand of iron gripped his own. And then, before Philip had found
words to say, the master of Fort o' God suddenly placed his arms
about his shoulders and embraced him. Their shoulders touched.
Their faces were close. The two men who loved Jeanne d'Arcambal
above all else on earth gazed for a silent moment into each
other's eyes.
"They have told me," said D'Arcambal, softly. "You have brought my
Jeanne home through death. Accept a father's blessing, and with
it--this!"
He stepped back, and swept his arms about the great room.
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