ay turn your heart to stone and ice,
M'sieur," he said, and his voice was scarce above a whisper. "I wanted
her to tell you back there, two days ago, but she shrank from the
ordeal then. It is coming to-night. And, however it may effect you,
M'sieur, I ask you not to show the horror of it, but to have pity. You
have perhaps known many women, but you have never known one like our
Josephine. In her soul is the purity of the blue skies, the sweetness
of the wild flowers, the goodness of our Blessed Lady, the Mother of
Christ. You may disbelieve, and what is to come may eat at the core of
your heart as it has devoured life and happiness from mine. But you
will love L'Ange--our Josephine--just the same."

Even as he felt himself trembling strangely at Jean Croisset's words,
Philip replied:

"Always, Jean, I swear that."

In the open door Josephine had paused for a moment, and was looking
back. Then she disappeared.

"Come," said Jean. "And may God have pity on you if you fail to keep
your word in all you have promised, M'sieur Philip Darcambal. For from
this hour on you are Philip Darcambal, of Montreal, the husband of
Josephine Adare, our beloved lady of the forests. Come, M'sieur!"

CHAPTER NINE

Without another word Jean led the way to the door, which had partly
closed after Josephine. For a moment he paused with his hand upon it,
and then entered. Philip was close behind him. His first glance swept
the room in search of the girl. She had disappeared with her two
companions. For a moment he heard voices beyond a second door in front
of him. Then there was silence.

In wonder he stared about him, and Jean did not interrupt his gaze. He
stood in a great room whose walls were of logs and axe-hewn timbers. It
was a room forty feet long by twenty in width, massive in its build,
with walls and ceiling stained a deep brown. In one end was a fireplace
large enough to hold a pile of logs six feet in length, and in this a
small fire was smouldering. In the centre of the room was a long,
massive table, its timber carved by the axe, and on this a lamp was
burning. The floor was strewn with fur rugs, and on the walls hung the
mounted heads of beasts. These things impressed themselves upon Philip
first. It was as if he had stepped suddenly out of the world in which
he was living into the ancient hall of a wild and half-savage thane
whose bones had turned to dust centuries ago.

Not until Jean spoke to him, and led the