He went to Lang and dropped upon his knees beside him. The man was unrecognizable. His head was almost gone. Philip thrust a hand inside his fang-torn coat—and pulled out a long envelope. It was addressed to the master of Adare. He staggered to his feet, and went to Thoreau. In his pocket he found the second envelope. Father George was close beside him as he thrust the two in his own pocket. He turned to the forest men, who stood like figures turned to stone, gazing upon the scene of the tragedy.
"Carry them—out there," said Philip, pointing into the forest. "And then—cover the blood with fresh snow."
He still clung to Father George's arm as he staggered toward a near birch.
"I feel weak—dizzy," he repeated again. "Help me—pull off some bark."
A strange, inquiring look filled the Missioner's face as he tore down a handful of bark, and at Philip's request lighted a match. In an instant the bark was a mass of flame. Into the fire he put the letters.
"It is best—to burn their letters," he said. Beyond this he gave no explanation. And Father George asked no questions.
They followed Adare into the tepee. Josephine was sobbing in her father's arms. John Adare's face was that of a man who had risen out of black despair into day.
"Thank God she has not been harmed," he said.
Philip knelt beside them, and John Adare gave Josephine into his arms. He held her close to his breast, whispering only her name—and her arms crept up about him. Adare rose and stood beside Father George.
"I will go back and attend to the wounded, Philip," he said. "Jean is one of those hurt. It isn't fatal."