back to a block of birch twenty paces from the door of Josephine's
tent. His head had fallen forward on his chest. He was asleep, but
across his knees lay his rifle, gripped tightly in both hands.
Quick as a flash the truth rushed upon Philip. Like a faithful dog
Jean was guarding the girl. He had kept awake as long as he could,
but even in slumber his hands did not give up their hold on the
rifle.

Against whom was he guarding her? What danger could there be in
this quiet, starlit night for Josephine? A sudden chill ran
through Philip. Did Jean mistrust HIM? Was it possible that
Josephine had secretly expressed a fear which made the Frenchman
watch over her while she slept? As silently as he had approached
he moved away until he stood in the sand at the shore of the lake.
There he looked back. He could just see Jean, a dark blot; and all
at once the unfairness of his suspicion came upon him. To him
Josephine had given proofs of her faith which nothing could
destroy. And he understood now the reason for that tired, drawn
look in Jean's face. This was not the first night he had watched.
Every night he had guarded her until, in the small hours of dawn,
his eyes had closed heavily as they were closed now.

The beginning of the gray northern dawn was not far away. Philip
knew that without looking at the hour. He sensed it. It was in the
air, the stillness of the forest, in the appearance of the stars
and moon. To prove himself he looked at his watch with the match
with which he lighted his pipe. It was half-past three. At this
season of the year dawn came at five.

He walked slowly along the strip of sand between the dark wall of