“They are there!” she said, chokingly.  “It is Sachigo, and they are coming—­coming—­coming—­”

Once again before they began the descent of the mountain Philip drew her close in his arms, and kissed her.  And this time there was the sweet surrender to him of all things in the tenderness of Jeanne’s lips.  Silent in their grief, and yet communing in sympathy and love in the firm clasp of their hands, they came down the mountain, through the thin spruce forest, and to the lighted cabin where Pierre lay dying.  MacDougall was in the room when they entered, and rose softly, tiptoeing into the little office.  Philip led Jeanne to Pierre’s side, and as he bent over him, and spoke softly, the half-breed opened his eyes.  He saw Jeanne.  Into his fading eyes there came a wonderful light.  His lips moved, and his hands strove to lift themselves above the crumpled blanket.  Jeanne dropped upon her knees beside him, and as she clasped his chilled hands to her breast a glorious understanding lighted up her face; and then she took Pierre’s face between her hands, and bowed her own close down to it, so that the two were hidden under the beauteous halo of her hair.  Philip gripped at his throat to hold back a sob.  A terrible stillness came into the room, and he dared not move.  It seemed a long time before Jeanne lifted her head, slowly, tenderly, as if fearing to awaken a sleeping child.  She turned to him, and he read the truth in her face before she had spoken.  Her voice was low and calm, filled with the sweetness and tenderness and strength that come only to a woman in the final moment of a great sorrow.

“Leave us, Philip,” she said.  “Pierre is dead.”

XXIII

For a moment Philip bowed his head, and then he turned and went noiselessly from the room, without speaking.  As he closed the door softly behind him he looked back, and from her attitude beside Pierre he knew that Jeanne was whispering a prayer.  A vision flashed before him, so quick that it had come like a ray of light —­a vision of another hour, years and years ago, when Pierre had knelt beside her, and when he had lifted up his wild, half-thought prayer out in the death-chill of the snowy barrens.  And this was his reward, to have Jeanne kneel beside him as the soul which had loved her so faithfully took its flight.

Philip could not see when he turned his face to the light of the office.  For the first time the grief which he had choked back escaped in a gasping break in his voice, and he wiped his eyes with his pocket-handkerchief.  He knew that MacDougall was looking upon his weakness, but he did not at first see that there was another person in the room besides the engineer.  This second person rose to meet him, while MacDougall remained in his seat, and as he came out into the clearer light of the room Philip could scarce believe his eyes.

It was Gregson!

“I am sorry that I came in just at this time, Phil,” he greeted, in a low voice.