“Quick!” he cried.  “We must hurry!”

He bent over to pick up his revolver from the ground.  His movement was followed by a low sob of pain.  Jeanne was swaying as though about to faint.  She fell in a crumpled heap before he could reach her side.

“You are hurt!” he exclaimed.  “Jeanne!  Jeanne!”

He was upon his knees beside her, crying out her name, half holding her in his arms.

“No, no!  I am not hurt—­much,” she replied, trying to recover herself.  “It is my ankle.  I sprained it—­on the cliff.  Now—­”

She became heavier against his arm.  Her eyes were limpid with pain.

Rising, Philip caught her in his arms.  The crashing of brush was within pistol-shot distance of them, but in that moment he felt no fear.  Life leaped back into his veins.  He wanted to shout back his defiance as he ran with Jeanne along the path to the river.  He could feel her pulsing against him.  His lips were in her hair.  Her heart was beating wildly against his own.  One of her arms was about his shoulder, her hand against his neck.  Life, love, the joy of possession swept through him in burning floods, and it seemed in these first moments of his contact with Jeanne, in the first sound of her voice speaking to him, that the passionate language of his soul must escape through his lips.  For this moment he had risked his life, had taken a hundred chances; he had anticipated, and yet he had not dreamed beyond a hundredth part of what it would mean for him.  He looked down into the white face of the girl as he ran.  Her beautiful eyes were open to him.  Her lips were parted; her cheek lay against his breast.  He did not realize how close he was holding her until, at last, he stopped where he had hidden the canoe.  Then he felt her beating and throbbing against him, as he had felt the quivering life of a frightened bird imprisoned in his hands.  She drew a deep breath when he opened his arms, and lifted her head.  Her loose hair swept over his breast and hands.

He spoke no word as he placed her in the canoe.  Not a whisper passed between them as the canoe sped swiftly from the shore.  A hundred yards down the stream Philip headed straight across the river and plunged into the shadows along the opposite bank.

Jeanne was close to him.  He could hear her breathing.  Suddenly he felt the touch of her hand.

“M’sieur, I must ask—­about Pierre!”

There was the thrill of fear in the low words.  She leaned back, her face a pale shadow in the deep gloom; and Philip bent over until he felt her breath, and the sweetness of her hair filled his nostrils.  Quickly he whispered what had happened.  He told her that Pierre was hurt, but not badly, and that he had promised to take her on to Fort o’ God.

“It is up the Churchill?” he questioned.

“Yes,” she whispered.

They heard voices now, and almost opposite them they saw shadowy figures running out to the canoes upon the sand-bar.