And then, suddenly,
there came from her a terrible cry, and she wrenched herself free,
and stood a step from him, her face as white as death.
"He--is--dead--"
"Yes, he is dead."
"And Pierre--Pierre killed him?"
Philip held out his arms, but Jeanne did not seem to see them. She
saw the answer in his face.
"And--Pierre--is--hurt--" she went on, never taking her wide,
luminous eyes from his face.
Before he answered Philip took her trembling hands in his own, as
though he would lighten the blow by the warmth and touch of his
great love.
"Yes, he is hurt, Jeanne," he said. "We must hurry, for I am
afraid there is no time to lose."
"He is--dying?"
"I fear so, Jeanne."
He turned before the look that came into her face, and led her
about the circle of fire to the side of the mountain that sloped
down into the plain. Suddenly Jeanne stopped for an instant. Her
fingers tightened about his. Her face was turned back into the
endless desolation of night and forest that lay to the south and
west. Far out--a mile--two miles--an answering fire was breaking
the black curtain that hid all things beyond them. Jeanne lifted
her face to him. Grief and love, pain and joy, shone in her eyes.
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