"I am sorry, M'sieur," he whispered, hoarsely. "I know that it has broken your heart. And mine, too, is crushed."
Something in the half-breed's face, in the choking utterance of his voice, struck Philip as new and strange. He had seen the eyes of dying animals filled with the wild pain that glowed in Pierre's, and suddenly he reached out and gripped the other's hand, and they stood staring into each other's face. In that look, the cold grip of their hands, the strife in their eyes, the bare truth revealed itself.
"And you, too—you love her, Pierre," said Philip.
"Yes, I love her, M'sieur," replied Pierre, softly. "I love her, not as a brother, but as a man whose heart is broken."
"Now—I understand," said Philip.
He dropped Pierre's hand, and his voice was cold and lifeless.
"I received a note—from her, asking me to leave Fort o' God in the morning," he went on, looking from Pierre out beyond the rock into the white barren. "I will go to-night."
"It is best," said Pierre.
"I have left nothing in Fort o' God, so there is no need of even returning to my room," continued Philip. "Jeanne will understand, but you must tell her father that a messenger came suddenly from Blind Indian Lake, and that I thought it best to leave without awakening him. Will you guide me for a part of the distance, Pierre?"
"I will go with you the whole way, M'sieur. It is only twenty miles, ten by canoe, ten by land."