e man was
unrecognizable. His head was almost gone. Philip thrust a hand inside
his fang-torn coat--and pulled out a long envelope. It was addressed to
the master of Adare. He staggered to his feet, and went to Thoreau. In
his pocket he found the second envelope. Father George was close beside
him as he thrust the two in his own pocket. He turned to the forest
men, who stood like figures turned to stone, gazing upon the scene of
the tragedy.

"Carry them--out there," said Philip, pointing into the forest. "And
then--cover the blood with fresh snow."

He still clung to Father George's arm as he staggered toward a near
birch.

"I feel weak--dizzy," he repeated again. "Help me--pull off some bark."

A strange, inquiring look filled the Missioner's face as he tore down a
handful of bark, and at Philip's request lighted a match. In an instant
the bark was a mass of flame. Into the fire he put the letters.

"It is best--to burn their letters," he said. Beyond this he gave no
explanation. And Father George asked no questions.

They followed Adare into the tepee. Josephine was sobbing in her
father's arms. John Adare's face was that of a man who had risen out of
black despair into day.

"Thank God she has not been harmed," he said.

Philip knelt beside them, and John Adare gave Josephine into his arms.
He held her close to his breast, whispering only her name--and her arms
crept up about him. Adare rose and stood beside Father George.

"I will go back and attend to the wounded, Philip," he said. "Jean is
one of those hurt. It isn't fatal."

He went out. Father George was about to follow when Philip motioned him
back.

"Will you wait outside for a few minutes?" he asked in a low voice. "We
shall need you--alone--Josephine and I."

And now when they were gone, he raised Josephine's face, and said:

"They are all gone, Josephine--Lang, Thoreau, AND THE LETTERS. Lang and
Thoreau are dead, and I have burned the letters. Jean was shot. He
thought he was dying, and he told me the truth that I might better
protect you. Sweetheart, there is nothing more for me to know. The
fight is done. And Father George is waiting--out there--to make us man
and wife. No one will ever know but ourselves--and Jean. I will tell
Father George that it has been your desire to have a SECOND marriage
ceremony performed by him; that we want our marriage to be consecrated
by a minister of the forests. Are you ready, dear? Shall I call him in?"