He drew
her face back, and kissed the quivering lips, and suddenly he felt
the strain against him give way, and Jeanne's head sobbed upon his
breast. In that moment, looking where the roaring pine sent its
pinnacles of flame leaping up into the night, a word of thanks, of
prayer, rose mutely to his lips, and he held Jeanne more closely,
and whispered over and over again in his happiness, "Jeanne--
Jeanne--my sweetheart Jeanne."
Jeanne's sobs grew less and less, and Philip strengthened himself
to tell her the terrible news of Pierre. He knew that in the
selfishness of his own joy he had already wasted precious minutes,
and very gently he took Jeanne's wet face between his two hands
and turned it a little toward his own.
"Pierre has told me everything, Jeanne," he repeated. "Everything
--from the day he found you many years ago to the day your father
returned to torture you." He spoke calmly, even as he felt her
shiver in pain against him. "To-night there was a little trouble
down in the camp, dear. Pierre is wounded, and wants you to come
to him. Thorpe--is--dead."
For an instant Philip was frightened at what happened. Jeanne's
breath ceased. There seemed to be not a quiver of life in her
body, and she lay in his arms as if dead.
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