Jean freed his hand and sat down in one of the chairs near the table. His eyes turned toward the window.
"You need not fear another shot, M'sieur," he said quietly. "The man who fired that will not fire again."
"You killed him?"
Jean bowed his head without replying. The movement was neither of affirmation nor denial:
"He will not fire again."
"It was more than one against one," persisted Philip. "Does your oath compel you to keep silent about that, too?"
There was a note of irritation in his voice which was almost a challenge to Jean. It did not prick the half-breed. He looked at Philip a moment before he replied:
"You are an unusual man, M'sieur," he said at last, as though he had been carefully measuring his words. "We have known each other only a few days, and yet it seems a long time. I had my suspicions of you back there. I thought it was Josephine's beauty you were after, and I have stood ready to kill you if I saw in you what I feared. But you have won, M'sieur. Josephine loves you. I have faith in you. And do you know why? It is because you have fought the fight of a strong man. It does not take great soul in a man to match knife against knife, or bullet against bullet. Not to keep one's word, to play a hopeless part in the dark, to leap when the numma wapew is over the eyes and you are blind—that takes a man. And now, when Jean Jacques Croisset says for the first time that there is a ray of hope for you, where a few hours ago no hope existed, will you give me again your promise to play the part you have been asked to play?"
"Hope!" Philip was at Jean's side in an instant. "Jean, what do you mean? Is it that you, even YOU—now give me hope of possessing Josephine?"
Slowly Jean rose from his chair.