“If you save her, M’sieur, do not bring her back,” he whispered, hoarsely.  “Take her to Fort o’ God.  Lose not an hour—­not a minute.  Trust no one.  Hide yourselves.  Fight—­kill—­but take her to Fort o’ God!  You will do this—­M’sieur—­you promise—­”

He fell back limp.  Philip lowered him gently, holding his head so that he could look into the staring eyes that were still open and understanding.

“I will go, Pierre,” he said.  “I will take her to Fort o’ God.  And you—­”

A shadow was creeping over Pierre’s eyes.  He was still fighting to understand, fighting to hold for another breath or two the consciousness that was fast slipping from him.

“Listen,” cried Philip, striving to rouse him.  “You will not die.  The bullet grazed your head, and the wound has already stopped bleeding.  To-morrow you must go to Churchill and hunt up a man named Gregson—­the man I was with when you and Jeanne came to see the ship.  Tell him that an important thing has happened, and that he must tell the others I have gone to the camps.  He will understand.  Tell him—­tell him—­”

He struggled to find some final word for Gregson.  Pierre still looked at him, his eyes half closed now.

Philip bent close down.

“Tell him,” he said, “that I am on the trail of Lord Fitzhugh!”

Scarcely had he uttered the name when Pierre’s closing eyes shot open.  A groaning cry burst from his lips, and, as if that name had aroused the last spark of life and strength within him into action, he wrenched himself from Philip’s arms, striving to speak.  A trickle of fresh blood ran over his face.  Incoherent sounds rattled in his throat, and then, overcome by his effort, he dropped back unconscious.  Philip wound his handkerchief about the wounded man’s head and straightened out his limbs.  Then he rose to his feet and reloaded his revolver.  His hands were steady now.  His brain was clear; the enervating thrill of excitement had gone from his body.  Only his heart beat like a racing engine.

He turned and ran in the direction which Pierre’s assailants had taken, his head lowered, his revolver held in front of him, on a level with his breast.  He had not gone a hundred yards when something stopped him.  In his path, with its face turned straight up to the moonlit sky, lay the body of a man.  For an instant Philip bent over it.  The broken blade of Pierre’s rapier glistened under the man’s throat.  One lifeless hand clutched at it, as though in the last moment of life he had tried to draw it forth.  The face was distorted, the eyes were still open, the lips parted.  Death had come with terrible suddenness.

Philip bent lower, and stared into the face of the dead man.  Where had he seen that face before?

Suddenly he remembered.  He drew back, and a cold sweat seemed to break out all at once over his face and body.  This man who lay with the broken blade of Pierre Couchee’s rapier in his breast had come ashore from the London ship that day in company with Eileen and her father!