So--is it strange that he should
snare rabbits with, a woman's hair?"
"And change black into the color of the sun?" added Philip,
falling purposely into the other's humor.
"If the rest is true--"
Pierre did not finish. He caught himself, swallowing hard, as
though a lump had risen in his throat, and for a moment or two
Philip saw him fighting with himself, struggling with the age-old
superstitions which had flared up for an instant like a powder-
flash. His jaws tightened, and he threw back his head.
"But those stories are NOT true, M'sieu," he added in a repressed
voice. "That is why I showed you the snare. Bram Johnson is not
dead. He is alive. And there is a woman with him, or--"
"Or--"
The same thought was in their eyes again. And again neither gave
voice to it. Carefully Philip was gathering up the strands of
hair, winding them about his forefinger, and placing them
afterward in a leather wallet which he took from his pocket. Then,
quite casually, he loaded his pipe and lighted it.
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