lves loaded with books, of walls
covered with pictures, of a ponderous table in front of him, and then
he heard a voice.

A man stepped out from beside the door, and he stood face to face with
the master of Fort o' God.

XVII

He was an old man. Beard and hair were white. He was as tall as Philip;
his shoulders were broader; his chest massive; and as he stood under
the light of one of the hanging lamps, his face shining with a pale
glow, one hand upon his breast, the other extended, it seemed to Philip
that all of the greatness and past glory of Fort o' God, whatever they
may have been, were personified in the man he beheld. He was dressed in
soft buckskin, like Pierre. His hair and beard grew in wild disorder,
and from under shaggy eyebrows there burned a pair of deep-set eyes of
the color of blue steel. He was a man to inspire awe; old, and yet
young; white-haired, gray-faced, and yet a giant. One might have
expected from between his bearded lips a voice as thrilling as his
appearance; a rumbling voice, deep-chested, sonorous--and it would have
caused no surprise. It was the voice that surprised Philip more than
the man. It was low, and trembling with an agitation which even
strength and pride could not control.

"Philip Whittemore, I am Henry d'Arcambal. May God bless you for what
you have done!"

A hand of iron gripped his own. And then, before Philip had found words
to say, the master of Fort o' God suddenly placed his arms about his
shoulders and embraced him. Their shoulders touched. Their faces were
close. The two men who loved Jeanne d'Arcambal above all else on earth
gazed for a silent moment into each other's eyes.

"They have told me," said D'Arcambal, softly. "You have brought my
Jeanne home through death. Accept a father's blessing, and with
it--this!"

He stepped back, and swept his arms about the great room.

"Everything--everything--would have gone with her," he said. "If you
had let her die, I should have died. My God, what peril she was in! In
saving her you saved me. So you are welcome here, as a son. For the
first time since my Jeanne was a babe Fort o' God offers itself to a
man who is a stranger and its hospitality is yours so long as its walls
hang together. And as they have done this for upward of two hundred
years, M'sieur Philip, we may conclude that our friendship is to be
without end."

He clasped Philip's hands again, and two tears coursed down his gray
cheeks. It was d