battle. Then Philip saw a
dark object huddled close to Josephine's tent.

He moved toward it, his moccasined feet making no sound. Something
impelled him to keep as quiet as the night itself. And when he came
near--he was glad. For the object was Jean. He sat with his back to a
block of birch twenty paces from the door of Josephine's tent. His head
had fallen forward on his chest. He was asleep, but across his knees
lay his rifle, gripped tightly in both hands. Quick as a flash the
truth rushed upon Philip. Like a faithful dog Jean was guarding the
girl. He had kept awake as long as he could, but even in slumber his
hands did not give up their hold on the rifle.

Against whom was he guarding her? What danger could there be in this
quiet, starlit night for Josephine? A sudden chill ran through Philip.
Did Jean mistrust HIM? Was it possible that Josephine had secretly
expressed a fear which made the Frenchman watch over her while she
slept? As silently as he had approached he moved away until he stood in
the sand at the shore of the lake. There he looked back. He could just
see Jean, a dark blot; and all at once the unfairness of his suspicion
came upon him. To him Josephine had given proofs of her faith which
nothing could destroy. And he understood now the reason for that tired,
drawn look in Jean's face. This was not the first night he had watched.
Every night he had guarded her until, in the small hours of dawn, his
eyes had closed heavily as they were closed now.

The beginning of the gray northern dawn was not far away. Philip knew
that without looking at the hour. He sensed it. It was in the air, the
stillness of the forest, in the appearance of the stars and moon. To
prove himself he looked at his watch with the match with which he
lighted his pipe. It was half-past three. At this season of the year
dawn came at five.

He walked slowly along the strip of sand between the dark wall of the
forest and the lake. Not until he was a mile away from the camp did he
stop. Then something happened to betray the uneasy tension to which his
nerves were drawn. A sudden crash in the brush close at hand drew him
about with a start, and even while he laughed at himself he stood with
his automatic in his hand.

He heard the whimpering, babyish-like complaint of the porcupine that
had made the sound, and still chuckling over his nervousness he seated
himself on a white drift-log that had lain bleaching for half a century
in t