“Run, Pierre!” shouted Philip.  “Run—­”

He fired once, over the heads of the fighters, and as Pierre suddenly darted to one side in obedience to his command there came for the first time a shot from the other side.  The bullet whistled close to his ears.  A second shot, and Pierre fell down like one dead among the rocks.  Again Philip fired—­a third and a fourth time, and one of the three who were disappearing in the white gloom stumbled over a rock, and fell as Pierre had fallen.  His companions stopped, picked him up, and staggered on with him.  Philip’s last shot missed, and before he could reload they were lost among the upheaved masses of the cliff.

“Pierre!” he called.  “Ho!  Pierre Couchee!”

There was no answer from the other side.

He ran along the edge of the break, and in the direction of the forest he found a place where he could descend.  In his haste he fell; his hands were scratched, blood flowed from a cut in his forehead when he dragged himself up to the face of the cliff again.  He tried to shout when he saw a figure drag itself up from among the rocks, but his almost superhuman exertions had left him voiceless.  His wind whistled from between his parted lips when he came to Pierre.

Pierre was supporting himself against a rock.  His face was streaming with blood.  In his hand he held what remained of the rapier, which had broken off close to the hilt.  His eyes were blazing like a madman’s, and his face was twisted with an agony that sent a thrill of horror through Philip.

“My hurt is nothing—­nothing-M’sieur!” he gasped, understanding the look in Philip’s face.  “It is Jeanne!  They have gone—­gone with Jeanne!” The rapier slipped from his hand and he slid weakly down against the rock.  Philip dropped upon his knees, and with his handkerchief began wiping the blood from the half-breed’s face.  For a few moments Pierre’s head hung limp against his shoulder.

“What is it, Pierre?” he urged.  “Tell me—­quick!  They have gone with Jeanne!”

Pierre’s body grew rigid.  With one great effort he seemed to marshal all of his strength, and straightened himself.

“Listen, M’sieur,” he said, speaking calmly.  “They set upon us as we were going to meet you at the rock.  There were four.  One of them is dead—­back there.  The others—­with Jeanne—­have gone in the canoe.  It is death—­worse than death—­for her—­”

His body writhed.  In a passion he strove to rise to his feet.  Then with a groan he sank back, and for a moment Philip thought he was dying.

“I will go, Pierre,” he cried.  “I will bring her back.  I swear it.”

Pierre’s hand detained him as he went to rise.

“You swear—­”

“Yes.”

“At the next break—­there is a canoe.  They have gone for the Churchill—­”

Pierre’s voice was growing weaker.  In a spasm of sudden fear at the dizziness which was turning the night black for him he clutched at Philip’s arm.