He returned the forbidden picture to the position in which he had found it against the wall, half ashamed of the act and thoughts into which his curiosity had led him.  And yet, after all, it was not curiosity.  He told himself that as he washed himself and groomed his disheveled clothes.

An hour had passed when he heard a low tap at the door, and Pierre came in.  In that time the half-breed had undergone a transformation.  He was dressed in an exquisite coat of yellow buckskin, with the same old-fashioned cuffs he had worn when Philip first saw him, trousers of the same material, buckled below the knees, and boot-moccasins with flaring tops.  He wore a new rapier at his waist, and his glossy black hair was brushed smoothly back, and fell loose upon his shoulders.  It was the courtier, and not Pierre the half-breed, who bowed to Philip.

“M’sieur, are you ready?” he asked.

“Yes,” replied Philip.

“Then we will go to M’sieur d’Arcambal, the master of Fort o’ God.”

They passed out into the hall, which was faintly illumined now, so that Philip caught glimpses of deep shadows and massive doors as he followed behind Pierre.  They turned into a second hall, at the end of which was an open door through which came a flood of light.  At this door Pierre stopped, and with a bow allowed his companion to pass in ahead of him.  The next moment Philip stood in a room twice as large as the one he had left.  It was brilliantly lighted by three or four lamps; he had only an instant’s vision of numberless shelves loaded with books, of walls covered with pictures, of a ponderous table in front of him, and then he heard a voice.

A man stepped out from beside the door, and he stood face to face with the master of Fort o’ God.

XVII

He was an old man.  Beard and hair were white.  He was as tall as Philip; his shoulders were broader; his chest massive; and as he stood under the light of one of the hanging lamps, his face shining with a pale glow, one hand upon his breast, the other extended, it seemed to Philip that all of the greatness and past glory of Fort o’ God, whatever they may have been, were personified in the man he beheld.  He was dressed in soft buckskin, like Pierre.  His hair and beard grew in wild disorder, and from under shaggy eyebrows there burned a pair of deep-set eyes of the color of blue steel.  He was a man to inspire awe; old, and yet young; white-haired, gray-faced, and yet a giant.  One might have expected from between his bearded lips a voice as thrilling as his appearance; a rumbling voice, deep-chested, sonorous—­and it would have caused no surprise.  It was the voice that surprised Philip more than the man.  It was low, and trembling with an agitation which even strength and pride could not control.

“Philip Whittemore, I am Henry d’Arcambal.  May God bless you for what you have done!”