For a long time he sat motionless in the chair facing the picture on the wall.  Then he rose to his feet, picked up the note, and went to one of the little square windows that looked out into the night.  The moon had risen, and the sky was full of stars.  He knew that he was looking into the north, for the pale shimmer of the aurora was in his face.  He saw the black edge of the spruce forest; the barren stretched out, pale and ghostly, into the night shadows.

He made an effort to open the window, but it was wedged tightly in its heavy sill.  He crossed the room, opened the door, and went silently down the hall to the door through which Pierre had led him a few hours before.  It was not locked, and he passed out into the night.  The fresh air was like a tonic, and he walked swiftly out into the moonlit spaces, until he found himself in the deep shadow of the Sun Rock that towered like a sentinel giant above his head.  He made his way around its huge base, and then stopped, close to where they had landed in the canoe.  There was another canoe drawn up beside Pierre’s, and two figures stood out clear in the moonlight.

One of these was a man, the other a woman, and as Philip stopped, wondering at the scene, the man advanced to the woman and caught her in his embrace.  He heard a voice, low and expostulating, which sounded like Otille’s, and in spite of his own misery Philip smiled at this other love which had found its way to Fort o’ God.  He turned back softly, leaving the lovers as he had found them; but he had scarce taken half a dozen steps when he heard other steps, and saw that the girl had left her companion and was hurrying toward him.  He drew back close into the shadow of the rock to avoid possible discovery, and the girl passed through the moonlight almost within arm’s reach of him.  At that moment his heart ceased to beat.  He choked back the groaning cry that rose to his lips.  It was not Otille who passed him.  It was Jeanne.

In another moment she was gone.  The man had shoved his canoe into the narrow stream, and was already lost in the gloom.  Then, and not until then, did the cry of torture fall from Philip.  And as if in echo to it he heard the sobbing break of another voice, and stepping out into the moonlight he stood face to face with Pierre Couchee.

It was Pierre who spoke first.

“I am sorry, M’sieur,” he whispered, hoarsely.  “I know that it has broken your heart.  And mine, too, is crushed.”

Something in the half-breed’s face, in the choking utterance of his voice, struck Philip as new and strange.  He had seen the eyes of dying animals filled with the wild pain that glowed in Pierre’s, and suddenly he reached out and gripped the other’s hand, and they stood staring into each other’s face.  In that look, the cold grip of their hands, the strife in their eyes, the bare truth revealed itself.

“And you, too—­you love her, Pierre,” said Philip.