It was not the old Jean that had returned this night, the Jean with his silence, his strange repression, the mysterious something that had seemed to link him with an age-old past.

Out of that spirit had risen a new sort of man--the fighting man.

He had seen a new fire in Jean's eyes and face; he had caught new meaning in his words, Jean was no longer the passive Jean--waiting, watching, guarding.

Out in the forest something had happened to rouse in him what a word from Josephine would set flaming in the savage breasts of her dogs.

And the excitement in Philip's blood was the thrill of exultation--the joy of knowing that action was close at hand, for deep in him had grown the belief that only through action could Josephine be freed for him.
Suddenly, softly, there came floating to him the low, sweet tones of the piano, and then, sweeter still, the voice of Josephine.