as plainly as she could that Bram had not harmed her.

"And if he HAD I guess you'd have let me smash his brains out when
he was bending over the stove, wouldn't you?" he said, stirring
the mess of desiccated potato he was warming in one of his kit-
pans. He looked up to see her eyes shining at him, and her lips
parted. She was delightfully pretty. He knew that every nerve in
her body was straining to understand him. Her braid had slipped
over her shoulder. It was as thick as his wrist, and partly
undone. He had never dreamed that a woman's hair could hold such
soft warm fires of velvety gold. Suddenly he straightened himself
and tapped his chest, an inspiring thought leaping into his head.

"I am Philip Raine," he said. "Philip Raine--Philip Raine--Philip
Raine--"

He repeated the name over and over again, pointing each time to
himself. Instantly light flashed into her face. It was as if all
at once they had broken through the barrier that had separated
them. She repeated his name, slowly, clearly, smiling at him, and
then with both hands at her breast, she said:

"Celie Armin."

He wanted to jump over the stove and shake hands with her, but the
potatoes were sizzling. Celie Armin! He repeated the name as he
stirred the potatoes, and each time he spoke it she nodded. It was
decidedly a French name--but half a minute's experiment with a
few simple sentences of Pierre Breault's language convinced him
that the girl understood no word of it.