"I am sorry. I beg your pardon."

He looked at her with new wonderment. She had tossed back her
loose hair, and stood tall and straight in the moonlight, her dark
eyes gazing at him now calmly and without affright. She was
dressed in rich yellow buckskin, as soft as chamois. Her throat
was bare. A deep collar of lace fell over her shoulders. One hand,
raised to her breast, revealed a wide gauntlet cuff of red or
purple plush, of a fashion two centuries old. Her lips were
parted, and he saw the faintest gleam of her white teeth, the
quick rising and falling of her bosom. He had spoken directly to
her, yet she gave no sign of having heard him.

"You startled us, that is all, M'sieur," said Pierre, quietly. His
English was excellent, and as he spoke he bowed low to Philip. "It
is I whom you must pardon, M'sieur--for betraying so much
caution."

Philip held out his hand.

"My name is Whittemore--Philip Whittemore," he said. "I'm staying
at Churchill until the ship comes in and--and I hope you'll let me
sit here on the rock."

For an instant Pierre's fingers gripped his hand, and he bowed low
again like a courtier. Philip saw that he, too, wore the same big,
old-fashioned cuffs, and that it was not a knife that hung at his
belt, but a short rapier.

"And I am Pierre--Pierre Couchee," he said. "And this--is my