She was his life. You understand what happened. The man from
the south--the young wife--they went away together."
Pierre coughed. A bit of blood reddened his lips. Philip wiped it
away gently with his handkerchief, hiding the stain from Pierre's
eyes.
"Yes," he said, "I understand."
"It broke D'Arcambal's heart," resumed Pierre. "He destroyed
everything that had belonged to the woman. He turned her picture
to the wall. His love turned slowly to hate. It was two years
later that I came over the barrens one night and found Jeanne and
her dead mother. The woman, M'sieur--Jeanne's mother--was
D'Arcambal's wife. She was returning to Fort o' God, and God's
justice overtook her almost at its doors. I carried little Jeanne
to my Indian mother, and then made ready to carry the woman to her
husband. It was then that a terrible thought came to me. Jeanne
was not D'Arcambal's daughter. She was a part of the man who had
stolen his wife. I worshiped the little Jeanne even then, and for
her sake my mother and I swore secrecy, and buried the woman. Then
we took the babe to Fort o' God as a stranger. We saved her. We
saved D'Arcambal. No one ever knew."
Pierre stopped for breath.
"Was it best?"
"It was glorious," said Philip, trembling.
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