"It is the reaction, M'sieur," said Pierre. "You are weak after the fever. If you could sleep—"
"I can," murmured Philip, dizzily, dropping upon his balsam. "But, Pierre—"
"Yes, M'sieur."
"I have something—to say to you—no questions—"
"Not now, M'sieur."
Philip heard the rustling of the flap, and Pierre was gone. He felt more comfortable lying down. Dizziness and nausea left him, and he slept. It was the deep, refreshing sleep that always follows the awakening from fever. When he awoke he felt like his old self, and went outside. Pierre was alone; a blanket was drawn across the front of the balsam shelter, and the half-breed nodded toward it in response to Philip's inquiring glance.
Philip ate lightly of the food which Pierre had ready for him. When he had finished he leaned close to him, and said:
"You have warned me to ask no questions, and I am going to ask none. But you have not forbidden me to tell you things which I know. I am going to talk to you about Lord Fitzhugh Lee."
Pierre's dark eyes flashed.
"M'sieur—"