The girl faced him, her eyes shining with sudden fear.  Quicker than her own was the movement of the half-breed.  In a flash he was upon his feet, his dark face tense with action, his right hand gripping at something in his belt as he bent toward the figure in the center of the rock.  His posture was that of an animal ready to spring.  Close beside him gleamed the white fangs of the wolf-dog.  The girl leaned over and twisted her fingers in the tawny hair that bristled on the dog’s neck.  Philip heard her speak, but she did not move her eyes from his face.  It was the tableau of a moment, tense, breathless.  The only thing that moved was the shimmer of steel.  Philip caught the gleam of it under the half-breed’s hand.

“Don’t do that, M’sieur,” he said, pointing at the other’s belt.  “I am sorry that I disturbed you.  Sometimes I come up here—­alone —­to smoke my pipe and listen to the sea down there.  I heard you say that you hate Churchill, and I hate it.  That is why I spoke.”

He turned to the girl.

“I am sorry.  I beg your pardon.”

He looked at her with new wonderment.  She had tossed back her loose hair, and stood tall and straight in the moonlight, her dark eyes gazing at him now calmly and without affright.  She was dressed in rich yellow buckskin, as soft as chamois.  Her throat was bare.  A deep collar of lace fell over her shoulders.  One hand, raised to her breast, revealed a wide gauntlet cuff of red or purple plush, of a fashion two centuries old.  Her lips were parted, and he saw the faintest gleam of her white teeth, the quick rising and falling of her bosom.  He had spoken directly to her, yet she gave no sign of having heard him.

“You startled us, that is all, M’sieur,” said Pierre, quietly.  His English was excellent, and as he spoke he bowed low to Philip.  “It is I whom you must pardon, M’sieur—­for betraying so much caution.”

Philip held out his hand.

“My name is Whittemore—­Philip Whittemore,” he said.  “I’m staying at Churchill until the ship comes in and—­and I hope you’ll let me sit here on the rock.”

For an instant Pierre’s fingers gripped his hand, and he bowed low again like a courtier.  Philip saw that he, too, wore the same big, old-fashioned cuffs, and that it was not a knife that hung at his belt, but a short rapier.

“And I am Pierre—­Pierre Couchee,” he said.  “And this—­is my sister—­Jeanne.  We do not belong to Fort Churchill, but come from Fort o’ God.  Good night, M’sieur!”

The girl had taken a step back, and now she swept him a courtesy so low that her fallen hair streamed over her shoulders.  She spoke no word, but passed quickly with Pierre up the rock, and while Philip stood stunned and speechless they disappeared swiftly into the white gloom of the night.