And Philip, as he ran swiftly through the camp
toward the narrow trail that led to that mountain-top, repeated
over and over again the dying words of Pierre--
"Jeanne--my Jeanne--my Jeanne--"
XXII
News of the double tragedy had swept through the camp, and there
was a crowd in front of the supply-house. Philip passed close to
Thorpe's house to avoid discovery, ran a hundred yards up the
trail over which Jeanne had fled a short time before, and then cut
straight across through the thin timber for the head of the lake.
He felt no effort in his running. Low bush whipped him in the face
and left no sting. He was not conscious that he was panting for
breath when he came out in the black shadow of the mountain. This
night in itself had been a creation for him, for out of grief and
pain it had lifted him into a new life, and into a happiness that
seemed to fill him with the strength and the endurance of five
men. Jeanne loved him! The wonderful truth cried itself out in his
soul at every step he took, and he murmured it aloud to himself,
over and over again, as he ran.
The glow of the signal-fire lighted up the sky above him, and he
climbed up, higher and higher, scrambling swiftly from rock to
rock, until he saw the tips of the flames licking up into the sky.
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