“M’sieur,” he whispered, quickly, “this locket—­was on the little Jeanne—­when I found her in the snow.  I kept it because it bears the woman’s initials.  I am foolish, M’sieur.  I am weak.  But I would like to have it buried with me—­under the old tree—­where Jeanne’s mother lies.  And if you could, M’sieur—­if you only could—­place something of Jeanne’s in my hand—­I would rest easier.”

Philip bowed his head in silence, while his eyes grew blinding hot.  Pierre pressed his hand.

“She loves you—­as I love her,” he whispered, so low that Philip could scarcely hear.  “You will love her—­always.  If you do not—­ the Great God will let the curse of Pierre Couchee fall upon you!”

Choking back the great sobs that rose in his breast, Philip sank upon his knees beside Pierre, and buried his face in his arms like a heartbroken boy.  For several moments there was a silence, punctuated by the rasping breath of the wounded man.  Suddenly this sound ceased, and Philip felt a cold fear leap through him.  He listened, neither breathing nor lifting his head.  In that interval of pulseless quiet a terrible cry came from Pierre’s lips, and when Philip looked up the dying half-breed had struggled to a sitting posture, blood staining his lips again, his eyes blazing, his white face damp with the clammy touch of death, and was staring through the cabin window.  It was the window that looked out over the lake, toward the rock mountain half a mile away.  Philip turned, horrified and wondering.  Through the window he saw a glow in the sky—­the glow of a fire, leaping up in a crimson flood from the top of the mountain!

Again that terrible, moaning cry fell from Pierre’s lips, and he reached out his arms toward the signal that was blazing forth its warning in the night.

“Jeanne—­Jeanne—­” he sobbed.  “My Jeanne—­”

He swayed, and fell back.  His words came in choking gasps.

“The signal!” he struggled, fighting to make Philip understand him.  “Jeanne—­saw—­Thorpe—­to-night.  He—­must—­changed—­plans.  Attack—­to-night.  Jeanne—­Jeanne—­my Jeanne—­has lighted—­the signal—­fire!”

A tremor ran through his body, and he lay still.  MacDougall ran across from the half-open door, and put his head to Pierre’s breast.

“Is he dead?” asked Philip.

“Not yet.”

“Will he become conscious again?”

“Possibly.”

Philip gripped MacDougall by the arm.

“The attack is to be made to-night, Mac,” he exclaimed.  “Warn the men.  Have them ready.  But you—­you, MacDougall, attend to this man, and keep him alive!”

Without another word he ran to the door and out into the night.  The signal-fire was leaping to the sky.  It lighted up the black cap of the mountain, and sent a thousand aurora fires flashing across the lake.  And Philip, as he ran swiftly through the camp toward the narrow trail that led to that mountain-top, repeated over and over again the dying words of Pierre—­