sister--Jeanne. We do not belong to Fort Churchill, but come from
Fort o' God. Good night, M'sieur!"

The girl had taken a step back, and now she swept him a courtesy
so low that her fallen hair streamed over her shoulders. She spoke
no word, but passed quickly with Pierre up the rock, and while
Philip stood stunned and speechless they disappeared swiftly into
the white gloom of the night.

Mutely he gazed after them. For a long time he stood staring
beyond the rocks, marveling at the strangeness of this thing that
had happened. An hour before he had stood with bared head over the
ancient dead at Churchill, and now, on the rock, he had seen the
resurrection of what he had dreamed those dead to be in life. He
had never seen people like Pierre and Jeanne. Their strange dress,
the rapier at Pierre's side, his courtly bow, the low, graceful
courtesy that the girl had made him, all carried him back to the
days of the old pictures that hung in the factor's room at
Churchill, when high-blooded gallants came into the wilderness
with their swords at their sides, wearing the favors of court
ladies next their hearts. Pierre, standing there on the rock, with
his hand on his rapier, might have been Grosellier himself, the
prince's favorite, and Jeanne--

Something white on the rock near where the girl had been sitting
caught Philip's eyes. In a moment he held in his fingers a small
handkerchief and a broad ribbon of finely knit lace. In her haste
to get away she had forgotten these things. He was about to run to
the crest of the cliff and call loudly for Pierre Couchee when he
held the handkerchief and the lace close to his face and the