r.

In the great chair sat the master of Fort o' God, his gray head bent;
at his feet knelt Jeanne, and so close were they that D'Arcambal's face
was hidden in Jeanne's shining, disheveled hair. No sooner had Philip
entered the room than his presence seemed to arouse the older man. He
lifted his head slowly, looking toward the door, and when he saw who
stood there he raised one of his arms from about the girl and held it
out to Philip.

"My son!" he said.

In a moment Philip was upon his knees beside Jeanne, and one of
D'Arcambal's heavy hands fell upon his shoulder in a touch that told
him he had come too late to keep back any part of the terrible story
which Jeanne had bared to him. The girl did not speak when she saw him
beside her. It was as if she had expected him to come, and her hand
found his and nestled in it, as cold as ice.

"I have hurried from the camp," he said. "I tried to overtake Jeanne.
About Pierre's neck I found a locket, and in the locket--was this--"

He looked into D'Arcambal's haggard face as he gave him the
blood-stained note, and he knew that in the moment that was to come the
master of Fort o' God and his daughter should be alone.

"I will wait in the portrait-room," he said, in a low voice, and as he
rose to his feet he pressed Jeanne's hand to his lips.

The old room was as he had left it weeks before. The picture of
Jeanne's mother still hung with its face to the wall. There was the
same elusive movement of the portrait over the volume of warm air that
rose from the floor. In this room he seemed to breathe again the
presence of a warm spirit of life, as he had felt it on the first
night--a spirit that seemed to him to be a part of Jeanne herself, and
he thought of the last words of the wife and mother--of her promise to
remain always near those whom she loved, to regain after death the
companionship which she could never hope for in life. And then there
came to him a thought of the vast and wonderful mystery of death, and
he wondered if it was her spirit that had been with him more than one
lonely night, when his camp-fire was low; if it was her presence that
had filled him with transcendent dreams of hope and love, coming to him
that night beside the rock at Churchill, and leading him at last to
Jeanne, for whom she had given up her life. He heard again the rising
of the wind outside and the beating of the storm against the window,
and he went softly to see if his vision could pene