Pierre was supporting himself against a rock. His face was streaming with blood. In his hand he held what remained of the rapier, which had broken off close to the hilt. His eyes were blazing like a madman's, and his face was twisted with an agony that sent a thrill of horror through Philip.
"My hurt is nothing—nothing-M'sieur!" he gasped, understanding the look in Philip's face. "It is Jeanne! They have gone—gone with Jeanne!" The rapier slipped from his hand and he slid weakly down against the rock. Philip dropped upon his knees, and with his handkerchief began wiping the blood from the half-breed's face. For a few moments Pierre's head hung limp against his shoulder.
"What is it, Pierre?" he urged. "Tell me—quick! They have gone with Jeanne!"
Pierre's body grew rigid. With one great effort he seemed to marshal all of his strength, and straightened himself.
"Listen, M'sieur," he said, speaking calmly. "They set upon us as we were going to meet you at the rock. There were four. One of them is dead—back there. The others—with Jeanne—have gone in the canoe. It is death—worse than death—for her—"
His body writhed. In a passion he strove to rise to his feet. Then with a groan he sank back, and for a moment Philip thought he was dying.
"I will go, Pierre," he cried. "I will bring her back. I swear it."
Pierre's hand detained him as he went to rise.
"You swear—"
"Yes."