“Oui, M'sieur,” said Jacques, falling into his French. “I have been there since November. What! They did not tell you at Lac Bain?”
“No—they did not tell me. But I was there but a few hours, Jacques. Listen—” He pulled out his pipe and began filling it, with his back to the stove. “You saw people—strangers—at Fort Churchill, Jacques? They came over on the London ship, and among them there was a woman—”
Pierrot's pale face flashed up with sudden animation.
“Ah—zee angel!” he cried. “That is what my Iowla called her, M'sieur. See!” He pointed to his bandaged hand. “Wan day that bete—the Indian dog of mine—did that, an' w'en I jumped up from the snow in front of the company's store, the blood running from me, I see her standing there, white an' scared. An' then she run to me with a little scream, an' tear something from her neck, an' tie it round my hand. Then she go with me to my cabin, and every day after that she come to see my Iowla an' the children. She wash little Pierre, an' cut his hair. She wash Jean an' Mabelle. She laugh an' sing an' hol' the baby, an' my Iowla laugh an' sing; an' she takes down my Iowla's hair, which is so long that it falls to her knees, an' does it up in a wonderful way an' says she would give everything she got if she could have that hair. An' my Iowla laugh at her, because her hair is like an angel's—like fire w'en the sun is on it; an' my Iowla tak' hers down, all red an' gold, an' do it up in the Cree way. And w'en she brings the man with her—he laughs an' plays with the kids, an' says he knows the doctor and that there will be nothing to pay for all that he is done. Ah—she ees wan be-e-eautiful-l-l angel! An' this—this is w'at she tied around my hand.”
With new life Pierrot went to a covered box nailed against one of the log walls and a moment later placed in Philip's hands a long, white, silken neck-scarf. Once more there rose to his nostrils the sweet, faint scent of hyacinth, and with a sudden low cry Philip crushed the dainty fabric in a mass to his face. In that moment it seemed as though the sweetness of the woman herself was with him, stirring him at last to confess the truth—the thing which he had fought against so fiercely in those few hours at Lac Bain; and the knowledge that he had surrendered to himself, that in going from Lac Bain he was leaving all that the world held for him in the way of woman and love, drew his breath from him in another broken, stifled cry.
When he lowered the scarf his face was white. Pierrot was staring at him.
“It makes me think—of home,” he explained lamely. “Sometimes I get lonely, too. There's a girl—down there—who wears a scarf like this, and what she wears smells like a flower, just as this does—”
“Oui, I understand,” said Pierrot softly. “It is the way I feel when my Iowla is gone.”
He replaced the scarf in the box, and when he returned to the stove Philip explained why he had come to his cabin. With Pierrot's promise to accompany him with dogs and sledge on his patrol the next day he prepared to go to bed. Pierrot also was undressing, and Philip said to him casually,
“This woman—at Churchill—Jacques—what if some one should tell you that she is not so much of an angel after all—that she is, perhaps, something like—like the woman over at Lac la Biche, who ran away with the Englishman?”