He no longer reasoned beyond one thing.  He must keep his body between Jeanne and the rocks.  He would be crushed, beaten to pieces, made unrecognizable, but Jeanne would be only drowned.  He fought to keep himself half under her, with his head and shoulders in advance.  When he felt the floods sucking him under, he thrust her upward.  He fought, and did not know what happened.  Only there was the crashing of a thousand cannon in his ears, and he seemed to live through an eternity.  They thundered about him, against him, ahead of him, and then more and more behind.  He felt no pain, no shock.  It was the sound that he seemed to be fighting; in the buffeting of his body against the rocks there was the painlessness of a knife-thrust delivered amid the roar of battle.  And the sound receded.  It was thundering in retreat, and a curious thought came to him.  Providence had delivered him through the maelstrom.  He had not struck the rocks.  He was saved.  And in his arms he held Jeanne.

It was day when he began the fight, broad day.  And now it was night.  He felt earth, under his feet, and he knew that he had brought Jeanne ashore.  He heard her voice speaking his name; and he was so glad that he laughed and sobbed like a babbling idiot.  It was dark, and he was tired.  He sank down, and he could feel Jeanne’s arms striving to hold him up, and he could still hear her voice.  But nothing could keep him from sleeping.  And during that sleep he had visions.  Now it was day, and he saw Jeanne’s face over him; again it was night, and he heard only the roaring of the flood.  Again he heard voices, Jeanne’s voice and a man’s, and he wondered who the man could be.  It was a strange sleep filled with strange dreams.  But at last the dreams seemed to go.  He lost himself.  He awoke, and the night had turned into day.  He was in a tent, and the sun was gleaming on the outside.  It had been a curious dream, and he sat up astonished.

There was a man sitting beside him.  It was Pierre.

“Thank God, M’sieur!” he heard.  “We have been waiting for this.  You are saved!”

“Pierre!” he gasped.

Memory returned to him.  He was awake.  He felt weak, but he knew that what he saw was not the vision of a dream.

“I came the day after you went through the rapids,” explained Pierre, seeing his amazement.  “You saved Jeanne.  She was not hurt.  But you were badly bruised, M’sieur, and you have been in a fever.”

“Jeanne—­was not—­hurt?”

“No.  She cared for you until I came.  She is sleeping now.”

“I have not been this way—­very long, have I, Pierre?”

“I came yesterday,” said Pierre.  He bent over Philip, and added:  “You must remain quiet for a little longer, M’sieur.  I have brought you a letter from M’sieur Gregson, and when you read that I will have some broth made for you.”

Philip took the letter and opened it as Pierre went quietly out of the tent.  Gregson had written him but a few lines.  He wrote: