she went on. "I was there--alone--when it happened. See--"

She moved to the bed and gently drew the curtains aside. Scarcely
breathing, Philip followed her.

"It's my baby," she whispered, "My little boy."

He could not see her face. She bowed her head and continued
softly, as if fearing to awaken the baby asleep on the bed:

"No one knows--but Jean. My mother came first, and then my father.
I lied to them. I told them that I was married, and that my
husband had gone into the North. I came home with the baby--to
meet this man I called Paul Darcambal, and whom they thought was
my husband. I didn't want it to happen down there, but I planned
on telling them the truth when we all got back in our forests. But
after I returned I found that--I couldn't. Perhaps you may
understand. Up here--among the forest people--the mother of a
baby--like that--is looked upon as the most terrible thing in the
world. She is called La bete noir--the black beast. Day by day I
came to realize that I couldn't tell the truth, that I must live a
great lie to save other hearts from being crushed as life has been
crushed out of mine. I thought of telling them that my husband had
died up here--in the North. And I was fearing suspicion ... the
chance that my father might learn the untruth of it, when you
came. That is all, Philip. You understand now. You know why--some
day--you must go away and never come back. It is to save the boy,
my father, my mother, and me!"

Not once in her terrible recital had the girl's voice broke. And