 21 As Philip approached the cabin, he saw a figure stealing away through the gloom. His first thought was that he had returned a minute too late to wreak his vengeance upon the gang foreman in his own home, and he quickened his steps in pursuit. The man ahead of him was cutting direct for the camp's supply-house, which was the nightly rendezvous of those who wished to play cards or exchange camp gossip. The supply-house, aglow with light, was not more than two hundred yards from Thorpe's, and Philip saw that if he dealt out the justice he contemplated, he had not a moment to lose. He began to run so quickly that he approached within a dozen paces of the man he was pursuing without being heard. It was not until then that he made a discovery which stopped him. The man ahead was not Thorpe. Suddenly, looking beyond him, he saw a second figure pass slowly through the lighted door of the supply-house. Even at that distance he recognized the gang foreman. He thrust his revolver under his coat, and fell a little farther behind the man he had mistaken for Thorpe, so that when the ladder passed within the small circle of light that came from the supply-house windows, he was fifty instead of a dozen paces away. Something in the other's manner, something strangely and potently familiar in his slim, lithe form, in the quick, half-running movement of his body, drew a sharp breath from Philip. He was on the point of calling a name, but it died on his lips. A moment more, and the man passed through the door. Philip was certain that it was Pierre Couchet who had followed Thorpe. He was filled with a sudden fear as he ran toward the store. He had scarcely crossed the threshold when a glance showed him Thorpe leaning upon a narrow counter, and Pierre close beside him. He saw that the half-breed was speaking, and Thorpe drew himself erect. Then, as quick as a flash, two things happened. Thorpe's hand went to his belt. Pierre's sent a lightning gleam of steel back over his shoulder. The terrible drive of the knife and the explosion of Thorpe's revolver came in the same instant. Thorpe crumpled back over the counter, clutching at his breast. Pierre turned about, staggering and saw Philip. His eyes lighted up, and with a moaning cry he stretched out his arms as Philip sprang to him. Above the sudden tumult of men's feet and excited voices he gasped out Jean's name. Half a dozen men had crowded about them. Through the ring burst McDougal, a revolver in his hand. Pierre had become a dead weight in Philip's arms. Help me over to the cabin with a mac," he said. He looked around among the men. It struck him as curious, even then, that he saw none of Thorpe's gang. "'Is Thorpe done for?' he asked. "'He's dead,' replied someone. With an effort Pierre opened his eyes. "'Dead,' he breathed, and in that one word there was a tremble of joy and triumph. "'Take Thorpe over to his cabin,' commanded Philip, as he and McDougal lifted Pierre between them. "'I will answer for this man.' They could hear Pierre sobbing breath as they hurried across the open. They laid him on Philip's bunk, and Pierre opened his eyes again. He looked at Philip. "'Monsieur,' he whispered. "'Tell me quick, if I must die.' McDougal had studied medicine and surgery before engineering, and took the place of camp physician. Philip drew back while he ripped open the half-breeds garments and bared his breast. Then he darted to his bunk for the satchel in which he kept his bandages and medicines, throwing off his coat as he went. Philip bent over Pierre. Blood was oozing slowly from the wounded man's right breast. Over his heart Philip noticed a blood-stained locket, fastened by a barbie string about his neck. Pierre's hands groped eagerly for Philip's. "'Monsieur, you will tell me if I must die,' he pleaded. "'There are things you must know about Jean, if I go. It will not hurt. I am not afraid. You will tell me.' "'Yes,' said Philip. He could scarcely speak, and while McDougal was at work, stood so that Pierre could not see his face. There was a sobbing note in Pierre's breath, and he knew what it meant. He had heard that same sound more than once when he had shot moose and caribou through the lungs. Five minutes later McDougal straightened himself. He had done all that he could. Philip followed him to the back part of the room. Almost without sound his lips framed the words. "'Will he die?' "'Yes,' said McDougal. There is no hope. He may last until morning.' Philip took a stool and sat down beside Pierre. There was no fear in the wounded man's face. His eyes were clear. His voice was a little stronger. "'I will die, Monsieur,' he said calmly. "'I am afraid so, Pierre.' Pierre's damp fingers closed about his own. His eyes shone softly, and he smiled. "'It is best,' he said. And I am glad. I feel quite well. I will live for some time.' "'Perhaps for a few hours, Pierre.' "'God is good to me,' breathed Pierre devoutly. I thank him. "'Are we alone?' "'Do you wish to be alone?' "'Yes.' Philip motioned to McDougal who went into the little office room. "'I will die,' whispered Pierre softly as though he were achieving a triumph. "'And everything would die with me, Monsieur, if I did not know that you love Jeanne and that you will care for her when I am gone. "'Monsieur, I have told you that I love her. "'I have worshipped her next to my God. "'I die happy knowing that I am dying for her. "'If I had lived, I would have suffered, for I love alone. "'She does not dream that my love is different from hers, for I have never told her. "'It would have given her pain, and you will never let her know. "'As our dear lady is my witness, Monsieur, she has loved but one man, and that man is you.' "'Pierre gave a great breath. "'A warm flood seemed suddenly to engulf Philip. "'Did he hear right? Could he believe?' "'He fell upon his knees beside Pierre and brushed his dark hair back from his face. "'Yes, I love her,' he said softly. "'But I did not know that she loved me.' "'It is not strange,' said Pierre, looking straight into his eyes. "'But you will understand now, Monsieur.' "'I seem to have strength, and I will tell you all from the beginning. "'Perhaps I have done wrong. You will know soon.' "'You remember Jean told you the story of the baby, of the woman frozen in the snow? "'That was the beginning of the long fight for me. "'This, what I am about to tell you, will be sacred to you, Monsieur?' "'As my life,' said Philip. Pierre was silent for a few moments. He seemed to be gathering his thoughts so that he could tell in few words the tragedy of years. Two brilliant spots burned in his cheeks and the hand which Philip held was hot. "'Years ago, twenty almost, there came a man to fort a god,' he began. He was very young and from the south. Darcambal was then middle-aged, but his wife was young and beautiful. "'Jean says that you saw her picture against the wall.' Darcambal worshipped her. She was his life. "'You understand what happened. The man from the south, the young wife, they went away together. Pierre coughed. A bit of blood reddened his lips. Philip wiped it away gently with his handkerchief, hiding the stain from Pierre's eyes. "'Yes,' he said. "'I understand.' "'It broke Darcambal's heart,' resumed Pierre. He destroyed everything that had belonged to the woman. He turned her picture to the wall. His love turned slowly to hate. It was two years later that I came over the barons one night and found Jean and her dead mother. "'The woman, monsieur, Jean's mother,' was Darcambal's wife. She was returning to fort a god, and god's justice overtook her almost at its doors. I carried little Jean to my Indian mother and then made ready to carry the woman to her husband. It was then that a terrible thought came to me. Jean was not Darcambal's daughter. She was a part of the man who had stolen his wife. I worshipped the little Jean even then, and for her sake my mother and I swore secrecy and buried the woman. Then we took the babe to fort a god as a stranger. We saved her. We saved Darcambal. No one ever knew. Pierre stopped for breath. "'Was it best?' "'It was glorious,' said Philip, trembling. "'It would have come out right in the end if the father had not returned,' said Pierre. "'I must hurry, monsieur, for it hurts me now to talk.' He came first a year ago and revealed himself to Jean. He told her everything. Darcambal was rich. Jean and I both had money. He threatened. We bought him off. We fought to keep the terrible thing from Darcambal. Our money sent him away for a time. Then he returned. It was news of him I brought up the river to Jean from Churchill. I offered to kill him, but Jean would not listen to that. But the great God willed that I should. I killed him to-night over there. A great joy surged above the grief in Philip's heart. He could not speak, but pressed Pierre's hand harder and looked into his glistening eyes. Pierre's next words broke his silence and wrung a low cry from his lips. "'Monsieur, this man Thorpe, Jean's father, is the man whom you know as Lord Fitzhugh Lee.' He coughed violently and with sudden fear Philip lifted his head so that it rested against his shoulder. After a moment he lowered it again. His face was as white as Pierre's after that sudden fit of coughing. I talked with him alone on the afternoon of the fight on the rock, continued Pierre huskily. He was hiding in the woods near Churchill and left for Fort Agade on that same day. I did not tell Jean until after what happened, and I came up with you on the river. Thorpe was waiting for us at Fort Agade. It was he whom Jean saw that night beside the rock, but I could not tell you the truth then. He came often after that, two, three times a week. He tortured Jean. My God, he taunted her, Monsieur, and made her let him kiss her, because he was her father. We gave him money, all that we could get. We promised him more, if he would leave. Five thousand dollars in three years. He agreed to go after he had finished his work here. And that work, Monsieur, was to destroy you. He told Jean because it made her fear him more. He compelled her to come to his cabin. He thought she was his slave, that she would do anything to be free of him. He told her of his plot, how he had fooled you in the sham fight with one of his men, how those men were going to attack you a little later, and how he had intercepted your letter from Churchill and sent in its place the other letter which made your camp defenseless. He was not afraid of her. He was not afraid of her. She was in his power, and he laughed at her horror, and tortured her as a cat will a bird. But Jean, a spasm of pain shot over Pierre's face, fresh blood dyed his lips, and a shiver ran through his body. My God! Water! Something, Monsieur! he gasped. I must go on! Philip raised him again in his arms. He saw McDougal's head appear through the door. You will rest easier this way, Pierre, he said. After a few moments Pierre spoke in a gasping whisper. You must understand. I must be quick, he said. We could not warn you of what Jean had discovered. That would have revealed her father. Ducambal would have known, everyone. Thorpe plans to dress his men like Indians. They are to attack your camp tomorrow night. Ten days ago we went to the camp of old Sashigo, the Cree, who loves Jean as his own daughter. It was Jean's idea to save you. Jean told him of Thorpe's plot to destroy you, and to lay the blame on Sashigo's people. Sashigo is out there, in the mountains, hiding with thirty of his tribe. Two days ago Jean learned where her father's men were hiding. We had planned everything. Tomorrow night, when they moved to attack, we were to start a signal fire on the big rock mountain at the end of the lake. Sashigo starts at the signal and lays in ambush for the others in the ravine between the two mountains. None of Thorpe's men will come out alive. Sashigo and his people will destroy them, and none will ever know how it happened, for the Crees keep their secrets. But now it is too late for me. When it happens I will be gone. The signal pile is built, Birchbark, at the very top of the rock. Jean will wait for me out on the plain, and I will not come. You must fire the signal, monsieur, as soon as it is dark. None will ever know. Jean's father is dead. You will keep the secret of her mother, always. Forever, said Philip. MacDougall came into the room. He brought a glass partly filled with a colored liquid, and placed it to Pierre's lips. Pierre swallowed with an effort, and with a significant hunch of his shoulders for Philip's eyes alone the engineer returned to the little room. Mon Dieu, how it burns, said Pierre, as if to himself. May I lie down again, monsieur? Philip lowered him gently. He made no effort to speak in these moments. Pierre's eyes were dark and luminous as they sought his own. The draft he had taken gave him a passing strength. I saw Thorpe again this afternoon. He said, more calmly, D'Arcambal thought I had taken Jean to visit a trapper's wife down the Churchill. I saw Thorpe alone. He had been drinking. He laughed at me and said that Jean and I were fools, that he would not leave as he had said he would, but that he would remain, always. I told Jean and asked her again to let me kill him, but she said no, and I had taken my oath to her. Jean saw him again tonight. I was near the cabin and saw you. I told him I would kill him if he did not go. He laughed again and struck me. When I came to my feet he was half across the open. I followed. I forgot my oath. Rage filled my heart. You know what happened. You will tell Jean so that she will understand. Can we not send for her? asked Philip. She must be near. No, Monsieur, he replied, softly. It would only give her great pain to see me like this. She was to meet me tonight at twelve o'clock on the trail where the roadbed crosses. You will meet her in my place. When she understands all that has happened, you may bring her here, if she wishes to come. Then, tomorrow night, you will go together to fire the signal. But Thorpe is dead, said Philip. Will they attack without him? There is another, besides him, said Pierre. That is one secret which Thorpe has kept from Jean. Who the other is? The one who is paying to have you destroyed. Yes, they will attack. Philip bent low over Pierre. I have known of this plot for a long time, Pierre, he said tensely. I know that this Thorpe, who for some reason has passed as Lord Fitzhugh Lee, is but the agent of a more powerful force behind him. Have you told me all, Pierre? Do you know nothing more? Nothing, monsieur. Was it Thorpe who attacked you on the cliff at Churchill? No, I am sure that it was not he. If the attack had not failed, it would have meant loss for him. I have laid it to the Ruffians who wanted to kill me and secure Jean. You understand? Yes, but I do not believe that was the motive for the attack, Pierre, said Philip. Did Thorpe go to see anyone in Churchill? I don't know. He was concealing himself in the forest. A convulsive shutter ran through Pierre's body. He gave a low cry of pain, and his hand clutched at the Babish cord which held the locket about his neck. Monsieur, he whispered quickly. This locket was on the little Jean when I found her in the snow. I kept it because it bears the woman's initials. I am foolish, monsieur. I am weak. But I would like to have it buried with me under the old tree where Jean's mother lies. And if you could, monsieur, if you only could, place something of Jean's in my hand, I would rest easier. Philip bowed his head in silence while his eyes grew blinding hot. Pierre pressed his hand. She loves you as I love her, he whispered so low that Philip could scarcely hear. You will love her, always. If you do not, the great God will let the curse of Pierre Couchet fall upon you. Choking back the great sobs that rose in his breast, Philip sank upon his knees beside Pierre, and buried his face in his arms like a heartbroken boy. For several moments there was a silence, punctuated by the rasping breath of the wounded man. Suddenly this sound ceased, and Philip felt a cold fear leap through him. He listened, neither breathing nor lifting his head. In that interval of pulseless quiet a terrible cry came from Pierre's lips, and when Pierre looked up the dying half-breed had struggled to a sitting posture, blood staining his lips again, his eyes blazing, his white face damp with the clammy touch of death, and was staring through the cabin window. It was the window that looked out over the lake, toward the rock mountain half a mile away. Philip turned horrified and wondering. Through the window he saw a glow in the sky, the glow of a fire leaping up in a crimson flood from the top of the mountain. Again that terrible moaning cry fell from Pierre's lips, and he reached out his arms toward the signal that was blazing forth its warning in the night. Jean! Jean! he sobbed. My Jean! He swayed and fell back. His words came in choking gasps. The signal! he struggled fighting to make Philip understand him. Jean saw a thorp tonight. He must changed plans. Attack tonight! Jean! Jean! My Jean has lighted the signal fire. A tremor ran through his body and he lay still. McDougal ran across from the half-open door and put his head to Pierre's breast. Is he dead? asked Philip. Not yet. Will he become conscious again? Possibly. Philip gripped McDougal by the arm. The attack is to be made tonight, Mack, he exclaimed. Warn the men. Have them ready. But you, you, McDougal, attend to this man and keep him alive. Without another word he ran to the door and out into the night. The signal fire was leaping to the sky. It lighted up the black cap of the mountain and sent a thousand aurora fires flashing across the lake. And Philip, as he ran swiftly through the camp toward the narrow trail that led to the mountaintop, repeated over and over again the dying words of Pierre. Jean! My Jean! My Jean! End of Chapter 21 Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 22 of Flower of the North This Libervox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline Flower of the North by James Oliver Kerwood Chapter 22 News of the double tragedy had swept through the camp and there was a crowd in front of the supply house. Philip passed close to Thorpe's house to avoid discovery, ran a hundred yards up the trail over which Jean had fled a short time before, and then cut straight across through the thin timber for the head of the lake. He felt no effort in his running. Low bush whipped him in the face and left no sting. He was not conscious that he was panting for breath when he came out in the black shadow of the mountain. This night in itself had been a creation for him, for out of grief and pain it had lifted him into a new life and into a happiness that seemed to fill him with the strength and the endurance of five men. Jean loved him. The wonderful truth cried itself out in his soul at every step he took, and he murmured it aloud to himself over and over again as he ran. The glow of the signal fire lighted up the sky above him, and he climbed up higher and higher, scrambling swiftly from rock to rock until he saw the tips of the flames licking up into the sky. He had come up the steepest and shortest side of the ridge, and when he reached the top he lay upon his face for a moment, his breath almost gone. The fire was built against a huge dead pine, and the pine was blazing a hundred feet in the air. He could feel its heat, the monster torch illumined the barren cap of the rock from edge to edge, and he looked about him for Jean. For a moment he did not see her. And her name rose to his lips, to be stilled in the same breath by what he saw beyond the burning pine. Through the blaze of the heat and fire he beheld Jean, standing close to the edge of the mountain, gazing into the south and west. He called her name. Jean turned toward him with a startled cry, and Philip was at her side. The girl's face was white and strained. Her lips were twisted in pain at sight of him. She spoke no word, but a strange sound rose in her throat, a welling up of the sudden despair which the firelight revealed in her eyes. For one moment they stood apart, and Philip tried to speak. And then suddenly he reached out and drew her quickly into his arms, so quickly that there was no time for her to escape, so closely that her sweet face lay imprisoned upon his breast, as he had held it once before under the picture at Fort Agade. He felt her straining to free herself. He saw the fear in her eyes, and he tried to speak calmly, while his heart throbbed with the passion of love which he wished to pour into her ears. Listen, Jean, he said. Pierre has sent me to you. He has told me everything, everything, my sweetheart. There is nothing to keep from me now. I know, I understand, and I love you, love you, love you, my own sweet Jean. She trembled at his words. He felt her shuttering in his arms, and her eyes gazed at him, wonderingly, filled with a strange and incredulous look, while her lips quivered and remained speechless. He drew her nearer until his face was against her own, and the warmth of her lips, her eyes, and her hair entered into him, and near stifled his heart with joy. He has told me everything, my little Jean, he said again in a whisper that rose just above the crackling of the pine. Everything! He told me because he knew that I loved you, and because—the words choked in his throat. At this hesitation Jean drew her head back, and with her hands pressing against his breast, looked into his face. There were in her eyes the same struggling emotions, but with them now there came also a sweet faltering, a piteous appeal to him, a faith that rose above her terrors, and the tremble of her lips was like that of a crying child. He drew her face back and kissed the quivering lips, and suddenly he felt the strain against him give way, and Jean's head sobbed upon his breast. In that moment, looking where the roaring pine sent its pinnacles of flames leaping up into the night, a word of thanks, of prayer, rose mutely to his lips, and he held Jean more closely, and whispered over and over again in his happiness, Jean, Jean, my sweetheart, Jean! Jean's sobs grew less and less, and Philip strengthened himself to tell her the terrible news of Pierre. He knew that in the selfishness of his own joy he had already wasted precious minutes, and very gently he took Jean's wet face between his two hands and turned it a little toward his own. Pierre has told me everything, Jean, he repeated, everything, from the day he found you many years ago to the day your father returned to torture you. He spoke calmly, even as he felt her shiver and pain against him. Tonight there was a little trouble down in the camp, dear. Pierre is wounded and wants you to come to him. Thorpe is dead. For an instant Philip was frightened at what happened. Jean's breath ceased. There seemed to be not a quiver of life in her body, and she lay in his arms as if dead. And then suddenly there came from her a terrible cry, and she wretched herself free and stood a step from him, her face as white as death. He is dead? Yes, he is dead. And Pierre? Pierre killed him? Philip held out his arms, but Jean did not seem to see them. She saw the answer in his face. And Pierre is hurt? She went on, never taking her wide, luminous eyes from his face. Before he answered Philip took her trembling hands in his own, as though he would lighten the blow by the warmth and touch of his great love. Yes, he is hurt, Jean, he said. We must hurry, for I am afraid there is no time to lose. He is dying? I fear so, Jean. He turned before the look that came into her face and led her about the circle of fire to the side of the mountain that sloped down into the plain. Suddenly Jean stopped for an instant. Her fingers tightened about his. Her face was turned back into the endless desolation of night and forest that lay to the south and west. Far out, a mile, two miles, an answering fire was breaking the black curtain that hid all things beyond them. Jean lifted her face to him. Grief and love, pain and joy, shown in her eyes. They are there, she said, jokingly. It is Sashigo, and they are coming, coming, coming. Once again before they began the descent of the mountain Philip drew her close in his arms and kissed her. And this time there was the sweet surrender to him of all things in the tenderness of Jean's lips. Silent in their grief, and yet communing in sympathy and love in the firm clasp of their hands, they came down the mountain through the thin spruce forest and to the lighted cabin where Pierre lay dying. MacDougall was in the room when they entered, and rose softly, tiptoeing into the little office. Philip led Jean to Pierre's side, and as he bent over him and spoke softly, the half-breed opened his eyes. He saw Jean. Into his fading eyes there came a wonderful light. His lips moved, and his hands strove to lift themselves above the crumpled blanket. Jean dropped upon her knees beside him, and as she clasped his chilled hands to her breast, a glorious understanding lighted up her face, and then she took Pierre's face between her hands and bowed her own close down to it so that the two were hidden under the beauteous halo of her hair. Philip gripped at his throat to hold back a sob. A terrible stillness came into the room, and he dared not move. It seemed a long time before Jean lifted her head, slowly, tenderly, as if fearing to awaken a sleeping child. She turned to him, and he read the truth in her face before she had spoken. Her voice was low and calm, filled with the sweetness and tenderness and strength that come only to a woman in the final moment of a great sorrow. Leave us, Philip. She said. Pierre is dead. End of Chapter 22. Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 23 OF FLOWER OF THE NORTH This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline. FLOWER OF THE NORTH By James Oliver Kerwood Chapter 23 For a moment Philip bowed his head, and then he turned and went noiselessly from the room without speaking. As he closed the door softly behind him he looked back, and from her attitude beside Pierre he knew that Jean was whispering a prayer. A vision flashed before him so quick that it had come like a ray of light, a vision of another hour, years and years ago, when Pierre had knelt beside her and when he had lifted up his wild half-thought prayer out on the death-chill of the snowy barons. And this was his reward, to have Jean kneel beside him as the soul which had loved her so faithfully took its flight. Philip could not see when he turned his face to the light of the office. For the first time the grief which he had choked back escaped in a gasping break in his voice, and he wiped his eyes with his pocket-hankerchief. He knew that McDougall was looking upon his weakness, but he did not at first see that there was another person in the room besides the engineer. This second person rose to meet him while McDougall remained in his seat. And as he came out into the clearer light of the room Philip could scarce believe his eyes. It was Gregson. I am sorry that I came in just at this time, Phil, he greeted in a low voice. Philip stared still incredulous. He had never seen Gregson as he looked now. The artist advanced to no farther. He did not hold out his hand. There was none of the joy of meeting in his face. His eyes shifted to the door that led into the death chamber, and they were filled with the gloom of a condemned man. With a low word Philip held out his hand to meet his old comrades. Gregson drew back. No, not now, he said. Wait until you have heard me. Something in his cold, passionless voice stopped Philip. He saw Gregson glance toward McDougall and understood what he meant. Going to the engineer he placed a hand on his shoulder and spoke so that only he could hear. She is in there, Mac, with Pierre. She wanted to be alone with him for a few minutes. Will you wait for her outside at the door and take her over to Cassidy's wife? Tell her that I will come to her in a little while. He followed McDougall to the door, speaking to him in a low voice, and then turned to Gregson. The artist had seated himself at one side of the small office table, and Philip sat down opposite him, holding out his hand to him again. What is the matter, Greggy? This is not a time for long explanations, said the artist, still holding back his hand. They can come later, Phil. But tonight, now, you must understand why I cannot shake hands with you. We have been friends for a good many years. In a few minutes we will be enemies, or you will be mine. One thing, before I go on, I must ask of you. I demand it. Whatever passes between us during the next ten minutes, say no word against Eileen Brokaw. I will say what you might say, that for a time her soul wandered and was almost lost. But it has come back to her, strong and pure. I love her. Some strange fate has ordained that she should love me, worthless as I am. She is to be my wife. Philip's hand was still across the table. Greggy! Greggy! God bless you! he cried softly. I know what it is to love and to be loved. Why should I be your enemy, because Eileen Brokaw's heart has turned to gold, and she has given it to you? Greggy, shake! Wait! said Gregson, huskily. Phil, you are breaking my heart. Listen, you got my note, but I did not desert you so abominably. I made a discovery that last night of yours in Churchill. I went to Eileen Brokaw, and tomorrow, some time, if you care, I will tell you of all that happened. First, you must know this. I have found the power that is fighting you down below. I have found the man who is behind the plot to ruin your company. The man who is responsible for Thorpe's crimes. The man who is responsible for that in there. He leaned across the table and pointed to the closed door. And that man, for a moment he seemed to choke, is Brokaw, the father of my affianced wife. Good God! cried Philip. Gregson, are you mad? I was almost mad when I first made the discovery, said Gregson, as cold as ice. But I am sane now. His scheme was to have the government annul your provincial license. Thorpe and his men were to destroy this camp and kill you. The money on hand from stock, over six hundred thousand dollars, would have gone into Brokaw's pockets. There is no need of further detail now, for you can understand. He knew Thorpe and secured him as his agent. It was merely a whim of Thorpe's to take the name of Lord Fitzhugh, instead of something less conspicuous. Three months before Brokaw came to Churchill, he wished to get detailed instructions to Thorpe, which he dared not trust to a wilderness male service. He could find no messenger whom he dared trust. So he sent Eileen. She was at Fort Agad for a week. Then she came to Churchill, where we saw her. The scheme was that Brokaw should bribe the ship's captain to run close into Blind Eskimo Point, at night, and signal to Thorpe and Eileen, who would be waiting. It worked, and Eileen and Thorpe came on with the ship. At the landing, you remember, Eileen was met by the girl from Fort Agad. In order not to betray herself to you, she refused to recognize her. Later she told her father, and Thorpe and Brokaw saw in it an opportunity to strike a first blow. Brokaw had brought two men whom he could trust, and Thorpe had four or five others at Churchill. The attack on the cliff followed, the object being to kill the man, but take the girl unharmed. A messenger was to take the news of what happened to Fort Agad, and to lay the crime to men who had run up to Churchill from your camp. Chance favored you that night, and you spoiled their plan. Chance favored me, and I found Eileen. It is useless for me to go into detail as to what happened after that, except to say this, that Eileen knew nothing of the man, but to say this, that Eileen knew nothing of the proposed attack, that she was ignorant of the heinousness of the plot against you, and that she was almost as much a tool of her father as you. Phil, for the first time there came a pleading light into Gregson's eyes as he leaned across the table. Phil, if it wasn't for Eileen, I would not be here. I thought that she would kill herself when I told her as much of the story as I knew, she told me what she had done, she confessed for her father. In that hour of her agony I could not keep back my love. We plotted. I forged a letter and made it possible to accompany Broca and Eileen up the Churchill. It was not my purpose to join you, and so Eileen professed to be taken ill. We camped back from the river, and I sent our two Indians back to Churchill, for Eileen and I wished to be alone with Broca in the terrible hour that was coming. That is all. Everything is revealed. I have come to you as quickly as I could, to find that Thorpe is dead. In my own selfishness I would have shielded Broca, arguing that he could pay Thorpe and work honorably henceforth. You would never have known. It is Eileen who makes this confession, not I. Phil, her last words to me were these. You love me, then you will tell him all this. Only after this, if he shows us a mercy which we do not deserve, can I be your wife. There is only one other thing to add. I have shown Broca a ray of hope. He will hand over to you all his rights in the company and the six hundred thousand in the treasury. He will sign over to you as repurchase money for whatever stock you wish to call in. Practically his whole fortune, five hundred thousand. He will disappear completely and forever. Eileen and I will hunt out our own little corner in a new world, and you will never hear of us again. This is what we have planned to do, if you show us mercy. Philip had not spoken during Gregson's terrible recital. He sat like one turned to stone. Rage, wonder, and horror burned so fiercely in his heart that they consumed all evidence of emotion. And to arouse him now there came an interruption that sent the blood flushing back into his face. A low knock at the closed door, a slow lifting of the latch, the appearance of Jean. Through her tears she saw only the man she loved, and sobbing aloud now like a child, she stretched out her arms to him. And when he sprang to her and caught her to his breast, she whispered his name again and again and stroked his face with her hands. Love, overpowering, breathing of heaven, was in her touch. And as she lifted her face to him, of her own sweet well now, and treating him to kiss her and to comfort her for what she had lost, he saw Gregson moving with bowed head like a stricken thing toward the outer door. In that moment the things that had been in his heart melted away, and raising a hand above his head he called softly. Tom Gregson, my old chum, if you have found a love like this, thank your God. My own love I would lose if I destroyed yours. Go back to Eileen. Tell Broca that I accept his offers. And when you come back in a few days, bring Eileen. My Jean will love her. And Jean, looking from Philip's face, saw Gregson for the first time as he passed through the door. Both Philip and Jean were silent for some moments after Gregson had gone. Their only movement was the gentle stroking of Philip's hand over the girl's soft hair. Their hearts were full, too full for speech. And yet he knew that upon his strength depended everything now. The revelations of Gregson, which virtually ended the fight against him personally, were but trivial in his thoughts compared with the ordeal which was ahead of Jean. Both Pierre and her father were dead, and with the exception of Jean no one but he knew of the secret that had died with them. He could feel against him the throbbing of the storm that was passing in the girl's heart, and in answer to it he said nothing in words, but held her to him with a gentleness that lifted her face, quiet and beautiful, so that her eyes looked steadily and questioningly into his own. You love me, she said, simply, and yet with a calmness that sent a curious thrill through him. Beyond all else in the world, he replied. She still looked at him without speaking, as though through his eyes she was searching to the bottom of his soul. And you know, she whispered after a moment. He drew her so close she could not move and crushed his face down against her own. Jean, Jean, everything is as it should be, he said. I am glad that you were found out in the snows. I am glad that the woman in the picture was your mother. I would have nothing different than it is. For if things were different you would not be the Jean that I know, and I would not love you so. You have suffered, sweetheart, and I too have had my share of sorrow. God has brought us together, and all is right in the end. Jean, my sweet Jean! Gregson had left the outer door slightly ajar. Auguste of Wind opened it wider. Through it there came now a sound that interrupted the words on Philip's lips, and sent a sudden quiver through Jean. In an instant both recognized the sound. It was the firing of rifles, the shots coming to them faintly from far beyond the mountain at the end of the lake. Moved by the same impulse, they ran to the door hand in hand. It is Sashigo, panted Jean. She could hardly speak. She seemed to struggle to get breath. I had forgotten. They are fighting. McDougal strode up from his post behind the door where he had been waiting for the appearance of Jean. Firing, off there, he said. What does it mean? We must wait and see, replied Philip. Send two of your men to investigate, Mac. I will rejoin you after I have taken Miss Daruk Ambal over to Cassidy's wife. He moved away quickly with Jean. On a sudden rise of the wind from the south, the firing came to them more distinctly. Then it died away and ended in three or four intermittent shots. For the space of a dozen seconds a strange stillness followed, and then over the mountaintop, where there was still a faint glow in the sky, there came the low, quavering, triumphal cry of the Crees. A cry born of the forest itself. Mournful, even in its joy. Only half human. Almost like a faraway burst of tongue from a wolf-pack on the hunt trail. And after that there was an unbroken silence. It is over, breathed Philip. He felt Jean's fingers tighten about his own. No one will ever know, he continued. Even MacDougall will not guess what has happened out there tonight. He stopped a dozen paces from Cassidy's cabin. The windows were a glow, and they could hear the laughter and play of Cassidy's two children within. Gently he drew Jean to him. You will stay here tonight, dear, he said. Tomorrow we will go to Fort Agade. You must take me home to-night, whispered Jean, looking up into his face. I must go, Philip. Send someone with me, and you can come in the morning with Pierre. She put her hand to his face again in the sweet touch that told more of her love than a thousand words. You understand, dear? She went on, seeing the anxiety in his eyes. I have the strength, to-night. I must return to Father, and he will know everything when you come to Fort Agade. I will send MacDougall with you, said Philip, after a moment, and then I will follow. With Pierre? Yes, with Pierre. For a brief space longer they stood outside of Cassidy's cabin, and then Philip, lifting her face, said gently, Will you kiss me, dear? It is the first time. He bent down, and Jean's lips reached his own. No, it is not the first time, she confessed, in a whisper. Not since that day, when I thought you were dying, after we came through the rapids. Five minutes later Philip returned to MacDougall. Robert's, Henshaw, Cassidy, and Lecoe were with the engineer. I've sent the St. Pierre's to find out about the firing, he said. Look at the crowd over at the store. Everyone heard it, and they've seen the fire on the mountain. They think the Indians have cornered a moose or two, and are shooting them by the blaze. They're probably right, said Philip. I want a word with you, Mac. He walked a little aside with the engineer, leaving the others in a group, and in a low voice told him as much as he cared to reveal about the identity of Thorpe and Gregson's mission and camp. Then he spoke of Jean. I believe that the death of Thorpe practically ends all danger to us, he concluded. I'm going to offer you a pleasanter job than fighting, Mac. It is imperative that Miss Darkambal should return to Darkambal House before morning, and I want you to take her, if you will. I'm choosing the best man I've got because—well, because she's going to be my wife, Mac. I'm the happiest man on earth tonight. MacDougall did not show surprise. Guessed it, he said, shortly, thrusting out a hand and grinning broadly into Philip's face. Couldn't help from seeing, Phil, and the firing and Thorpe and that half-breed in there. Understanding was slowly illuminating his face. You'll know all about them a little later, Mac, said Philip softly. Tonight we must investigate nothing very far. Miss Darkambal must be taken home immediately. Will you go? With pleasure. She can ride one of the horses as far as the little Churchill, continued Philip, and there she will show you a canoe. I will follow in the morning with the body of Pierre, the half-breed. A quarter of an hour later MacDougall and Jean set out over the river-trail, leaving Philip standing behind, watching them until they were hidden in the night. It was fully an hour later before the St. Pierre's returned. Philip was uneasy until the two dark-faced hunters came into the little offices and leaned their rifles against the wall. He had feared that Sashigo might have left some trace of his ambush behind. But the St. Pierre's had discovered nothing and could give only one reason for the burning pine on the summit of the mountain. They agreed that Indians had fired it to frighten moose from a thick cover to the south and west, and that their hunt had been a failure. It was midnight before Philip relaxed his caution, which he maintained until then, in spite of his belief that Thorpe's men, under Blake, had met a quick finish at the hands of Sashigo and his ambushed braves. His men left for their cabins, with the exception of Cassidy, whom he asked to spend the remainder of the night in one of the office bunks. Alone he went in to prepare Pierre for his last journey to Fort Agade. A lamp was burning low beside the bunk in which Pierre lay. Philip approached and turned the wick higher, and then he gazed in wonder upon the transfiguration in the half-breed's face. Pierre had died with a smile on his lips, and with a curious thickening in his throat Philip thought that those lips, even in death, were carved in the act of whispering Jean's name. It seemed to him, as he stood in silence for many moments, that Pierre was not dead, but that he was sleeping, a quiet, unbreathing sleep in which there came to him visions of the great love for which he had offered up his life and his soul. Jean's hands, in his last moments, had stilled all pain. Peace slumbered in the pale shadows of his closed eyes. The great God of his faith had come to him in his hour of greatest need on earth, and he had passed away into the valley of silent men on the sweet breath of Jean's prayers. The girl had crossed his hands upon his breast. She had brushed back his long hair. Philip knew that she had imprinted a kiss upon the silent lips before the soul had fled, and in the warmth and knowledge of that kiss Pierre had died happy. And Philip, brokenly, said aloud, God bless you, Pierre, old man. He lifted the cold hands back and gently drew the covers which had hidden the telltale stains of death from Jean's eyes. He turned down Pierre's shirt and in the lamp glow there glistened the golden locket. For the first time he noticed it closely. It was half as large as the palm of his hand and very thin, and he saw that it was bent and twisted. A shutter ran through him when he understood what had happened. The bullet that had killed Pierre had first struck the locket and had burst it partly open. He took it in his hand, and then he saw that through the broken side there protruded the end of a bit of paper. For a brief space the discovery made him almost forget the presence of death. Pierre had never opened the locket because it was of the old-fashioned kind that locked with a key, and the key was gone. And the locket had been about Jean's neck when he found her out in the snows. Was it possible that this bit of paper had something to do with the girl he loved? Carefully so that it would not tear, he drew it forth. There was writing on the paper, as he had expected, and he read it, bent low beside the lamp. The date was nearly eighteen years old. The lines were faint. The words were these. My husband! God can never undo what I have done. I have dragged myself back, repentant, loving you more than I have ever loved you in my life, to leave our little girl with you. She is your daughter and mine. She was born on the eighth day of September, the seventh month after I left Forta God. She is yours, and so I bring her back to you, with the prayer that she would help to fill the true and noble heart that I have broken. I cannot ask your forgiveness, for I do not deserve it. I cannot let you see me, for I should kill myself at your feet. I have lived this long only for the baby. I will leave her where you cannot fail to find her. And by the time you have read this, I will have answered for my sin, my madness, if you can have charity regard it so. And if God is kind, I will hover about you always, and you will know that in death the old sweetheart and the mother has found what she could never again hope for in life. Your wife. Philip rose slowly erect and gazed down into the still, tranquil face of Pierre, the half-breed. Why didn't you open it? he whispered. Why didn't you open it? My God! What it would have saved! For a full minute he looked down at Pierre, as though he expected that the white lips would move and answer him. And then he thought of Jean hurrying to Forta God, and of the terrible things which she was to reveal to her father that night. She was Darcambal's own daughter. What pain, what agony of father and child he might have saved if he had examined the locket a little sooner. He looked at his watch and found that Jean had been gone three hours. It would be impossible to overtake MacDougal and the girl, unless something had occurred to delay them somewhere along the trail. He hurried back into the little room where he had left Cassidy. In a few words he explained that it was necessary for him to follow Jean and the engineer to Darcambal House without a moment's delay, and he directed Cassidy to take charge of camp affairs and to send Pierre's body with the suitable escort the next day. It isn't necessary for me to tell you what to do, he finished. You understand. Cassidy nodded. Six months before he had buried his youngest child under a big spruce back of his cabin. Philip hastened to the stables and choosing one of the lighter animals was soon galloping over the trail toward the little Churchill. In his face there blew a cold wind from Hudson's Bay, and now and then he felt the sting of fine particles in his eyes. They were the pre-sage of storm. A shifting of the wind a little to the east and south, and the fine particles would thicken and turn into snow. By morning the world would be white. He came into the forests beyond the plain, and in the spruce and the cedar tops the wind was half a gale, filling the night with wailing and moaning sounds that sent strange shivers through him as he thought of Pierre in the cabin. In such a way he imagined had the north wind swept across the cold barrens on the night that Pierre had found the woman and the babe. And now it seemed, in his fancies, as though above and about him, the great hand that had guided the half-breed then was bringing back the old night as if Pierre, in dying, had wished it so. For the wind changed. The fine particles thickened and changed to snow. And then there was no longer the wailing and the moaning in the treetops, but the soft murmur of a white deluge that smothered him in a strange gloom and hid the trail. There were two canoes concealed at the end of the trail on the little Churchill, and Philip chose the smallest. He followed swiftly after McDougal and Jean. He could no longer see either side of the stream, and he was filled with a fear that he might pass the little creek that led to Fort Agade. He timed himself by his watch, and when he had paddled for two hours, he ran in close to the west shore, traveling so slowly that he did not progress a mile in half an hour. And then suddenly, from close ahead, there rose through the snow-gloom the dismal howl of a dog, which told him that he was near to Fort Agade. He found the black opening that marked the entrance to the creek, and when he ran upon the sand-bar a hundred yards beyond, he saw lights burning in the great room where he had first seen Darcambal. He went now where Pierre had led him that night, and found the door unlocked. He entered silently, and passed down the dark hall, until, on the left, he saw a glow of light that came from the big room. Something in the silence that was ahead of him made his own approach without sound, and softly he entered through the door. In the great chair sat the master of Fort Agade, his grey head bent. At his feet knelt Jean, and so close were they that Darcambal's face was hidden in Jean's shining, dishelled hair. No sooner had Philip entered the room than his present scene to arouse the older man, and no sooner had Philip entered the room than his present scene to arouse the older man. He lifted his head slowly, looking toward the door, and when he saw who stood there, he raised one of his arms from about the girl, and held it out to Philip. My son! he said. In a moment Philip was upon his knees beside Jean, and one of Darcambal's heavy hands fell upon his shoulder in a touch that told him he had come too late to keep back any part of the terrible story which Jean had bared to him. The girl did not speak when she saw him beside her. It was as if she had expected him to come, and her hand found his and nestled in it as cold as ice. I have hurried from the camp, he said. I tried to overtake Jean. About Pierre's neck I found a locket, and in the locket was this. He looked into Darcambal's haggard face as he gave him the blood-stained note, and he knew that in the moment that was to come the master of four to God and his daughter should be alone. I will wait in the portrait room, he said in a low voice, and as he rose to his feet he pressed Jean's hand to his lips. The old room was as he had left it weeks before. The picture of Jean's mother still hung with its face to the wall. There was the same elusive movement of the portrait over the volume of warm air that rose from the floor. In this room he seemed to breathe again the presence of a warm spirit of life as he had felt it on the first night. A spirit that seemed to him to be a part of Jean herself. And he thought of the last words of the wife and mother, of her promise to remain always near those whom she loved, to regain after death the companionship which she could never hope for in life. And then there came to him a thought of the vast and wonderful mystery of death, and he wondered if it was her spirit that had been with him more than one lonely night when his campfire was low, if it was her presence that had filled him with transcendent dreams of hope and love coming to him that night beside the rocket Churchill, and leading him at last to Jean for whom she had given up her life. He heard again the rising of the wind outside and the beating of the storm against the window, and he went softly to see if his vision could penetrate into the white twisting gloom beyond the glass. For many minutes he stood, seeing nothing. And then he heard a sound, and turned to see Jean and her father standing in the door. Glory was in the face of the Master of Forta God. He seemed not to see Philip, he seemed to see nothing but the picture that was turned against the wall. He strode across the room, his great shoulder straightened, his shaggy head erect, and with the pride of one revealing first to human eyes the masterpiece of his soul and life, he turned the picture so that the radiant face of the wife and mother looked down upon him. And was it fancy that for a fleeting moment the smile left the beautiful lips, and a light, soft and luminous pleading for love and forgiveness filled the eyes of Jean's mother? Philip trembled. Jean came across to him silently and crept into his arms. And then slowly the Master of Forta God turned toward them and stretched out both of his great arms. My children, he said, end of Chapter 24, Recording by Roger Maline, Chapter 25 of Flower of the North, this Libervox recording is in the public domain, Recording by Roger Maline, Flower of the North by James Oliver Curwood, Chapter 25. All that night the storm came out of the North and East. Hours after Jean and her father had left him, Philip went quietly from his room, passed down the hall, and opened the outer door. He could hear the gale whistling over the top of the great rock and moaning in the spruce and cedar forest, and he closed the door after him and buried himself in the darkness and wind. He bowed his head to the stinging snow, which came like blasts of steeled shot, and hurried into the shelter of the sun-rock, and stood there after that listening to the wildness of the storm and the strange whistling of the wind cutting itself to pieces far over his head. Since man had first beheld that rock, such storms as this had come and gone for countless generations. Two hundred years and more had passed since Grossellier first looked out upon a wondrous world from its summit, and yet this storm, tonight, whistling and moaning about him, filling all space with its grief, its triumph, and its madness, seemed to be for him and for him alone. His heart answered to it. His soul trembled to the marvellous meaning of it. Tonight this storm was his own. He was a part of a world which he would never leave. Here, beside the great sun-rock of the Crees, he had found home, life, happiness, his God. Here, henceforth through all time, he would live with his beloved gene, dreaming no dreams that went beyond the peace of the mountains and the forests. He lifted his face to where the storm swept above him, and for an instant he fancied that high up on the ragged edge of the rock there might have stood Pierre, with his great gaping, hungry heart, filled with pain and yearning, staring off into the face of the Almighty. And he fancied too that beside him there hovered the wife and mother. And then he looked afford to God. The lights were out. Quiet, if not sleep, had fallen upon all life within. And it seemed to Philip, as he went back again through the storm, that in the morning tumult of the night there was music instead of sadness. He did not sleep until nearly morning, and when he awoke he found that the storm had passed and that over a world of spotless white there had risen a brilliant sun. He looked out from his window and saw the top of the sun-rock, glistening in a golden fire, and where the forest-trees had twisted and moaned there were now unending canopies of snow, so that it seemed as though the storm, in passing, had left behind only light and beauty and happiness for all living things. Trembling with the joy of this Philip went to his door and from the door down the hall, and where the light of the sun blazed through a window near to the great room where he expected to find the Master of Forta God, there stood Jean. And as she heard him coming and turned toward him all the glory and beauty of the wondrous day was in her face and hair. Like an angel she stood waiting for him, pale and yet flushing a little, her eyes shining and yearning for him, her soul in the tremble of the single word on her sweet lips. Philip! Jean! No more, and yet against each other their hearts told what it was futile for their lips to attempt. They looked out through the window. Beyond that window, as far as the vision could reach, swept the barons over which Pierre had brought the little Jean. Something sobbing rose in the girl's throat. She lifted her eyes swimming with love and tears to Philip, and from his breast she reached up both hands gently to his face. They will bring Pierre to-day, she whispered. Yes, to-day. We will bury him out yonder, she said, stroking his face, and he knew that she meant out in the baron where the mother lay. He bowed his face close down against hers to hide the woman's weakness that was bringing a misty film into his eyes. You love me, she whispered. You love me, love me, and you will never take me away, but will stay with me always. You will stay here, dear, in my beautiful world. We, too, alone. Forever and forever, he murmured. They heard a step, firm and vibrant, with the strength of a new life, and they knew that it was the master of four to God. Always, we, too, forever, whispered Philip again. The End End of Chapter 25 Recording by Roger Maline End of Flower of the North by James Oliver Kerwood