"Is he dead?" asked Philip.
"Not yet."
"Will he become conscious again?"
"Possibly."
Philip gripped MacDougall by the arm.
"The attack is to be made to-night, Mac," he exclaimed. "Warn the men. Have them ready. But you—YOU, MacDougall, attend to this man, AND KEEP HIM ALIVE!"
Without another word he ran to the door and out into the night. The signal-fire was leaping to the sky. It lighted up the black cap of the mountain, and sent a thousand aurora fires flashing across the lake. And Philip, as he ran swiftly through the camp toward the narrow trail that led to that mountain-top, repeated over and over again the dying words of Pierre—
"Jeanne—my Jeanne—my Jeanne—"