At last the bear-skin was spread, broad, and white, and soft, on their floor. To their delight they found that their new comrade would steal in at night and rest upon the soft rug, creeping away in the early morning, just as the first robin announced that day was beginning to break.

Gradually it grew accustomed to them, and ere a month had passed it would take food from their hands, although it would not allow them to touch it. But before the summer had passed, and the September leaves began to turn, it would crouch at Marguerite's feet, and rest its snout in her lap as she petted and fondled it.

All through the summer Claude grew stronger and stronger. The gods were good to him, for a time was coming when all his man's strength would be needed.



CHAPTER XV

When Roberval returned to his castle, and the great iron gates flew back to admit him, he was amazed to see, standing in the courtyard, the stalwart form of La Pommeraye. He knew that the young man had gone to Canada, and he had hoped that the New World, which had swallowed up so many valiant Frenchmen, would have found him a grave. For a moment he could find no words to address his enemy—for as such he now saw from his defiant mien that La Pommeraye had come. But the old domineering self-confidence returned at once.

"Why loiters a son of France in the paths of peace when the foe, who presses down upon us, calls for every sword in the kingdom?" he exclaimed.

"My sword has never been found in the scabbard when the King had need of it," replied Charles, and he added, threateningly, "nor will it ever be allowed to rust when the weak call for help, or if they are beyond help, for revenge."

Roberval blanched. He saw that La Pommeraye had in some way become aware of his infamous treatment of his niece and De Pontbriand. He knew, too, that the young lion was roused, and that a false step on his part would cost him his life. He suddenly changed his tactics.

"Pardon an old soldier, M. de la Pommeraye," he said, "but I have just come from a hot field where a few such swords as yours would have turned the tide of battle in our favour. I forgot for the moment that you must have but lately arrived from the New World, whither King Francis told me he had sent you to recall me." With an assumed innocence he added: "I am weary from the fight, and the long ride through the mud; but when I have had a night's rest I have much to say to you, and shall expect you in my apartment in the morning. Perhaps you may be persuaded to accompany me back to camp."

"Never! I serve no tyrant!" said Charles bluntly. "My sword has other tasks before it."

"You are bold, M. de la Pommeraye, to stand single-handed in my court and use such language to me. Have you brought any attendants with you?"

"No. I came alone. I had no desire that others should know the cause of my journey to Picardy."

"It is well," said De Roberval, and to himself he muttered: "And no one shall see you go hence. M. de la Pommeraye," he said aloud, "does not wisely to believe all the old wives' tales he has heard. But these things are not for the ears of the world. To-morrow we shall meet, and, after our conference, I have no doubt we shall journey hence together. Etienne will see to your wants. The north tower, Etienne; it is Monsieur's old room."

As he spoke, he leaped from his horse and entered the castle. When he was alone in his room he fell on a couch and groaned in spirit. His sin was finding him out. His fair young niece rose before him, and he seemed to hear her voice as she had bade him farewell. The vision would not down. At length he rose, and, draining a wine-cup, strode up and down the room, muttering defiance at his enemies. "I was but God's servant punishing vice," he said to himself, "and this fool who dares beard me in my stronghold shall feel the weight of my hand. He shall die, and the torture his existence inflicts on me shall end. We shall go hence together, indeed, but he shall be carried forth. I would not even let his body remain within my castle walls."

Kill La Pommeraye himself he knew he could not, but the old honour of the man had become so sapped that he felt little compunction when he resolved to have him murdered under his own roof. He knew that his own life was not safe a moment while La Pommeraye lived; and he knew, moreover, that should the truth of the story get abroad, his hopes of advancement and honour would be at an end. There was no help for it; he had gone too far to retreat. Charles must not be allowed to leave the castle alive.

In Etienne, De Roberval thought he had a faithful ally. Twice had the lad helped him to remove foes whom his rank would not allow him to meet, and yet whom he could not send to the gallows. But he had reckoned without his host this time. Etienne was a faithful henchman of the House of Roberval, and he had aided his master when he thought the honour of the family was at stake; but ever since the dim mists of the Isle of Demons had faded from his sight, he had, with difficulty, kept his strong, young hands from seizing his master by the throat, and choking his life out. If he honoured the name he served, he worshipped the memory of Marguerite; and now that La Pommeraye had come, as he gathered, to avenge her, he was ready to fall at his feet, to follow him to the ends of the earth, to the very Isle of Demons, if necessary.

Roberval guessed naught of all this. The heavy peasant face, the dull eyes, well concealed the workings of the man's soul when the nobleman called him into his presence, and hinted that he would need his sword the next day. Etienne guessed his purpose at once, and, when the plan was revealed, would fain have run his master through the heart, but his face and eye had an ox-like lack of intelligence.

"Are you ready to risk your life in this enterprise?" said the nobleman. "It is for the honour of the House of Roberval."

"I am at your service, Sieur," said Etienne, quietly.

"You have seen the man to-day, and you know his strength?"

Etienne bowed.

"You must bring three daring fellows with you. Three of the soldiers who accompanied me here to-day will do. You can instruct them. Guide them through the armory, and by yonder passage to this room. The curtain will conceal you. Make no noise; he is a wary foe. When I draw my sword upon him, strike him down ere he can turn. Give him no chance; he is not a man to be trifled with."

Again Etienne signified a stolid assent.

"Away now, and let not your fellows know my signal. A false step will cost them their lives at La Pommeraye's hand. And let not a word escape you, or I will string all four of you to the nearest tree. So, away! and see that you are punctual. Let the good work be well done."

The stoical Picard withdrew from his master's presence, but muttered to himself as he went down the long hall which led to the square: "It will go hard, but I will see that the good work is, indeed, well done."

Charles de la Pommeraye was pretty well worn out by the amount of travelling he had done, and he was glad when Etienne left him, and he could throw himself on his couch to sleep. But the air seemed oppressive. He felt that there was treachery in it, and, rising, he bolted and barred the door of his room, and placed his trusty sword within reach of his hand. Still he could not rest, and tossed about, seeing both the hard face of De Roberval before him, and the rugged outlines of the barren, northern island with the beckoning smoke curling upward.

Midnight came; and when everything was at rest save the clink, clank of the sentry's footfall as he walked back and forth on the wall, La Pommeraye raised himself on his elbow, and listened. A rat seemed to be gnawing at the wall. "Hard food, these stones," he said to himself. "Methinks," he added, as the sound grew louder, "the rat hath strong teeth."

The next instant the moonlight, which streamed in at the high window, showed him a part of the solid wall moving back, and, in the opening, a man, tall, square-shouldered, with a bull-neck, stood silent. Charles' hand found his sword, and, leaping from his bed, he sprang at the intruder.

When Etienne left his master, instead of going to the part of the castle where the troopers were quartered, he went without the wall altogether, and walked up and down in silent meditation. He was planning a course of action, and his slow wit was tardy in mapping it out. La Pommeraye must be warned, and must leave the castle; but how to manage this without calling down on himself the wrath of De Roberval was no easy problem for Etienne to solve. But he soon determined on one part of his plan. He would warn La Pommeraye himself. He would then have the rest of the night to plan his own escape; and perhaps La Pommeraye might be able to help him out of his difficulty.

He knew a dozen ways of entering and leaving the castle without being seen, and stealing in by one of them, he waited till midnight, when De Roberval, who was ever likely to be prowling about, would be almost sure to be at rest. Many of the rooms had secret passages leading to them from outside, and La Pommeraye's was one of these. Etienne could traverse their windings as easily as he could the halls of the interior, and he resolved to seek an entrance to La Pommeraye's room, and tell him the whole story.

He found the bolt of the door after some groping about, but it had long remained unused, and required many vigorous pulls to make it move. At last it shot back, and, as he pressed his sturdy shoulders against the wall, the secret door swung open.

When La Pommeraye leaped forward with drawn sword, Etienne showed no sign of fear.

"It is I, Monsieur," he said, with unmoved slowness.

La Pommeraye lowered his weapon, and exclaimed:

"What brings you here at this hour? I thought you were one of De Roberval's hired assassins."

"So I am, Monsieur," replied the Picard, with grim humour. "I am to head a band of them to take your life."

La Pommeraye laughed.

"And where are your fellows, since you are here to put an end to my career?" he asked.

"Monsieur asks too many questions. I have not exactly come here to assassinate you, but to tell you the time, the place, and the manner in which it is to be done. As to my fellows—my master left the carrying out of the plot to me; and I thought it best to tell you first, before preparing them for the——"

"Slaughter! I see, good Etienne!" and La Pommeraye burst into a hearty laugh at the way De Roberval's servant had outwitted him.

"Monsieur has an interview with the Sieur de Roberval to-morrow morning?" questioned the man.

"Yes, most worthy Etienne."

"In the east tower, in my master's room. I am to admit you to that room; and, having done it, I am to lead three other murderers, like myself," said Etienne, with a grin at his own wit, "by a secret passage similar to the one by which I entered your room just now. We are to await a signal from my master—the raising of his sword—and then we are to fall upon you and make sure of our work. He warned me that if we made a botch of it you would probably send us all to Heaven, and if we let aught be known about it, we should all be hanged; and so, methinks, I had better go be hanged."

Charles could not restrain his amusement at the doleful sincerity with which the last words were uttered. On other lips the closing remark would have sounded like dry humour; but Etienne's voice showed that he expected no better fate.

"So, your master pays me the compliment of hiring no less than four men to kill me," said Charles. "And what do you propose to do, now that you have warned me?"

"I know not, Monsieur. It took me an hour walking up and down outside the gate to get thus far. Another hour's thinking may help me to find some way of escape from the Sieur de Roberval's wrath."

"I fear, good Etienne, he will never forgive you if his plot miscarries. He is not a man to break his promises. Perhaps we may see an easier way out of it than by means of a rope. Who commands the guard to-night?"

"Pierre Dablon."

"Would he let you pass without doubting your word?"

"Ay, that he would! Pierre has too often felt the strength of my arm to doubt my word."

"The way is plain, then! Go to the stables, saddle your master's best and fleetest horse, and put as many leagues between you and this castle as you can before the time comes to lead your fellows to my death. Tell Pierre you are sent out by De Roberval with a message that brooks no delay, and, seeing you so mounted, he will question you no further. Take this ring, and keep your horse warm till you reach St Malo. Enquire out Master Jacques Cartier; every Malouin can direct you to him. Show him the ring, and he will provide for you till I come. And say not a word of your master's attempt on my life. Let none but Master Cartier's ears hear the story of Mdlle. de Roberval and M. de Pontbriand. The world does not understand. They may still be alive, and we will bring them back; and all France shall hear their story from their own lips."

Etienne could only fall on his knees and kiss Charles' hand in speechless gratitude.

"But, Monsieur," he exclaimed, "will you not come with me? My master will certainly kill you; and the castle is full of cut-throats who will obey him for hire."

"Nay, nay, good Etienne. Away to St Malo. I have a meeting with your master to-morrow. I will find my own way to his room; and in the course of a week expect me at St Malo."

Etienne left him, and in half an hour's time was galloping along the muddy roads, on which great puddles gleamed like silver shields. As he rode on, he pondered what manner of man it was whom he had just left, and how, knowing that his life was in danger, he could loiter in the very stronghold of his enemy.

On the morrow, at the appointed hour, Charles presented himself in De Roberval's room. The nobleman met him with his usual frigid politeness. He was somewhat alarmed at seeing him enter unannounced by Etienne.

"How found you your way hither?" he enquired.

"Etienne Brule, the faithful fellow who has waited on me since I entered your castle, directed me, Sieur," replied Charles.

"He is indeed a faithful fellow," said De Roberval, with a tinge of irony in his hard voice. "But now tell me more plainly the reason of this visit."

"The Sieur de Roberval knows only too well."

"Impossible, since you have not yet told me. Your vague hints of last night conveyed but little meaning. If you have ought to say, speak out boldly and bluntly, as a soldier should ever speak."

"Yes, and act," said Charles curtly.

"What do you mean?" cried De Roberval.

"If your answer does not satisfy me when I have spoken plainly, you will soon learn my meaning," said Charles.

"Dare you threaten me?" and De Roberval laid his hand on his sword.

Charles imitated his action.

"Keep that plaything where it is. I have here at my side the sword I wore on the Sillon. Your weapon might shrink from its touch."

"Curse you!" hissed De Roberval; but remembering how girt about with foes was Charles, he checked himself, and with an evil smile said: "I forgot for a moment that you are my guest, with a petition to offer. Out with it! There is nothing I should not be willing to grant you."

"It is of Mdlle. de Roberval I have come to speak," said Charles, with a sternness which made the nobleman tremble lest his plans should miscarry. "Since I returned to France, two months ago, strange tales of your brutal treatment of your niece have reached my ears. I have come to you to find out the truth of these tales. If they are true, I will cut you off as a cursed thing among men. If you can prove them false, I swear I will defend your honour against every man who insults it by repeating them."

"I need no champion," said De Roberval testily. "I have done no wrong. Your friend, whom I trusted, whom I took into my house, whom I saw nursed back to life in this very room, proved a faithless ingrate, and betrayed the trust I had placed in him."

"Liar!" came from between Charles' set teeth.

But De Roberval, unheeding the interruption, went on:

"To save my niece's honour I took her with me to the New World, and bade her lover venture not on board my vessel. But scarcely were we a day at sea when he stood by her side, having found his way on board among a gang of criminals. He disgraced the name of De Roberval before the whole world. I put him in chains for his disobedience; and still he seduced my niece to his side. Could I, as a just ruler, spare my own? I put her on an island in the northern seas, with the two jades who had abetted her crime; and her wretched paramour leaped into the ocean, and doubtless perished ere he reached the shore."

Charles stood pale and trembling with the effort to restrain himself, as he listened to this recital, and De Roberval exulted in the thought that in another moment he would see the man whom he now no longer dreaded lying dead at his feet. At last La Pommeraye found his tongue.

"Take back that lie!" he thundered, "or, by the holy cross, I will pluck the tongue that uttered it from your false throat! Claude a deceiver! Marguerite a——" but he could get no further. He was about to draw his sword, when he saw De Roberval's weapon flash upwards. The action recalled him to his senses. He remembered that this was to be the signal for the assassins. He reached out a sudden hand, seized De Roberval by the throat, and dashed him headlong against the wall. The shock stunned him for a moment, and his sword fell ringing on the floor. Charles picked it up, snapped it across his knee, and flung the pieces at the nobleman.

"A wretched weapon," said he, "fit for a coward."

De Roberval raised himself, and sat glaring at the wrathful giant.

"You are surprised," said La Pommeraye, "that I have not killed you. It is not mercy; I but respect the hospitality of your roof. I will let you live for a time, tortured by your coward's conscience, and then I will strike you down. Assassin, your plot was discovered. You thought to have murdered me in your own house—you, who were once noble enough to strike at your own breast when you thought yourself defeated. Your peasants have more nobility. Etienne, whom you entrusted with the carrying out of your plan, told me the whole story, and I have sent him safely on his way on your best horse. Follow not his steps, or the Duke of Guise will make you feel his iron hand. You have still a few months to live. I passed the Isle of Demons, and saw your niece's watchfire beckoning me ashore. I return thither at once. If they are still alive I will come back and crave the King to mete out to you the punishment you deserve; if they have perished I will hack you limb from limb. Attempt not to follow me, or to send your dogs after me, or your days will suddenly be shortened."

Leaving the nobleman still half-stunned by the stinging blow he had received, and speechless at the threats he had listened to, especially at the mention of the Duke of Guise, Charles strode from the castle, mounted his horse, which awaited him at the gate, and rode away with a fury which put all chance of pursuit out of the question.

As he rode on with white face and set teeth, no one seeing him would have thought that the fierce eye and stern expression could have belonged to the dashing dare-devil, the prince of cavaliers and duellists, of a year before.



CHAPTER XVI

Autumn came once more to the lonely dwellers on the Isle of Demons.

The dreary time was settling down threateningly; and as they faced the inevitable months, their hearts sank within them.

The bleak, late September winds again compelled them to spend most of their time within their hut. Daily through the summer they had watched for a passing sail, but with the return of autumn they gave up hope, and made ready as best they could to pass another winter on their island prison. Their supply of food, although they had husbanded it with the utmost care, was almost exhausted, and they had now scarcely anything save fish and fowl.

Yet their wretched surroundings, their hopeless future, only drew them closer together. They had each other, and that meant everything. They could scarcely have been said to be actually unhappy, but for one ever-gnawing anxiety—the state of Claude's health. All summer he had remained strong and hopeful, but with the first cold weather his cough returned, and he himself realised that he could never live through the winter, whose icy breath they could even now feel from the north. He was to give up the fight sooner than either of them expected; but before the struggle ended still another sorrow—or joy, they scarce knew which—was to be added to their lives.

Early in October Marguerite's child was born. Almost she had prayed that it might not live; almost she had hoped that she might die with it, and end the awful suffering which was all they could look forward to. But when she came slowly back to strength again, and held the tiny, helpless creature in her arms, and knew that it drew its life from her veins, the desire to live returned to her; she had now a double incentive to courage and hope.

For a time Claude forgot the future, his own sufferings, everything except his son. All the tenderness in his nature showed itself now. His hands, which in France had known no service but war, were now as apt as any woman's. Night and day he waited on Marguerite and her child, and with great joy saw them both grow strong. Meanwhile, a kind Providence seemed to be mindful of him, for his strength never failed him; and Marguerite, as each morning she met his bright smile and cheery words, began to hope that the miracle for which she had prayed had been worked, and that Claude would yet be spared to her.

The cold of September had been followed by an unusually late and mild autumn, and in the mellow, hazy days Marguerite would walk up and down the cliff with her child in her arms, followed by the cub, which they had humorously christened Francois, and which had now grown quite domesticated, and would shuffle after his mistress wherever she went, like a faithful dog. In these peaceful days Marguerite found herself crooning to her baby the old Normandy lullabies, which she had not heard since her own infancy, but which came back instinctively to her lips.

But her happiness was to be of short duration. The blow she had dreaded fell upon her when she least expected it. Claude's strength had been but false fire. With the return of the cold weather heaviness seized his limbs, a dull weight oppressed his lungs, and his cough grew rapidly worse. At last, one night, there came a haemorrhage which would not be checked, and in the morning Marguerite found herself alone with her dead.

How she lived through that night and the days which followed it she never knew. Nature was merciful to her, and blotted out all memory of details from her brain. The constant necessity of caring for her child was all that saved her reason, and kept her from taking her life.

With her own hands she dug a third grave beside the two others on the cliff, and after incredible labour and exertion, she laid Claude's body to rest, and heaped the earth above it. When she had finished her task, which she had performed with wild and feverish energy, she threw herself upon the mound, and gave way to utter despair. How long she lay there she did not know; but she was recalled to herself by the crying of her child from the hut. Not for herself, but for the sake of the little life which depended upon her, she must continue to live and be strong. She pressed her baby to her breast, and with amazing fortitude and heroism, set herself to face the task before her.

Then followed many weeks of agony. Through the long nights the wind howled about her hut, and she imagined she heard the voices of the demons of the island clamouring for her soul. With fiendish fury they yelled and shrieked round her frail little shelter, and often she fancied she could hear them trying to force an entrance. In the morning, with her child wrapped close and warm at her breast, she would go out and pace the cliff in all weathers, finding in the worst tumult of the elements a relief from the terrors of the night. Madness seemed settling down upon her, but the thought of her child bore her through it all, and the iron will of the De Robervals stood her in good stead.

Her vitality was marvellous. Something of the nature of her warrior ancestors seemed to have entered into her veins, and she was able to endure hardships such as had caused many a hardy soldier to succumb. The winter, which closed in upon her, bade fair to be no less severe than the preceding one, and now she had no one to help her in her daily tasks. With her own hands she had to break the bare branches, carry in fire-logs, and even cut down trees.

Her efforts to obtain fish were unsuccessful, although the ice, which occasionally formed about the shore, was soon broken up by the wind, and the birds, which still hovered about their island haunts, seemed to have no difficulty in procuring their food. Fortunately, the powder and shot, which they had carefully husbanded, still held out, and she had a sufficient supply to carry her through the winter. She was loth to destroy the only living creatures left upon the island. The hares, which leaped across her path, she had learned to love, and the warmly-clad northern birds had become very dear companions to her in her loneliness. But the terrible necessity that stared her in the face knew naught of mercy, and the winter stillness often re-echoed to the sound of her arquebuse. So expert had she become that she rarely wasted a charge of powder.

December passed, and January was nearly over, when the crowning sorrow which Fate had in store for this heroic woman fell upon her. She woke one morning to find her child cold and lifeless at her side. She seized him in her arms, pressed the little icy form close to her warm breast, but felt no answering warmth. Madly she kissed his lips and eyes and cheeks; she would not believe that he was dead. When at length she became convinced of the truth, she rushed wildly from the hut.

There had been a heavy snowfall during the night. She was in her bare feet, but she heeded not the cold. She rushed to the cliff, her child in her arms, her hair streaming about her shoulders. The end had at last come; there was nothing further to live for. Fate had conquered. She could but throw herself into the sea, and, with her baby in her arms, confront the good God who had seen fit to pursue her with such suffering. But as she stood upon the cliff, the rolling waves beating against the rocky hollows in the grey dawn seemed to her the hoarse voices of the demons. Once more she heard them calling for her soul, and for the soul of her child. She turned, and retraced her steps to her empty hut.

Laying the baby's body on the bed, she sat down beside it on the floor, her hands clasped about her knees. Silent she sat there, beside the fire she had heaped up to try to revive the child, till night fell, and the stars shone out bright and clear in the frosty sky. Silent she sat till they faded again before the grey light of dawn, and the morning of a new day broke. The wind had risen during the night, and the waves had been bellowing up the beach; but she heard neither wind nor waves. Dry-eyed she sat beside her long-dead fire, and felt not cold nor fear. Her faculties were deadened, her brain numbed, and it was not till her faithful companion, Francois the bear, tired of waiting to be taken notice of, pressed his nose against her clasped hands, and breathed his warm breath into her face, that she awoke from her trance.

She rose mechanically, turned to her brush heap, selected some dry sticks for her fire, and was about to place them on the embers when she noticed that it had long been dead. Her hands were like ice; she was chilled to the very bone; but the physical pain she now began to feel saved her. It called forth her energies; quickly she went to work to renew the fire, and the exertion drew her out of herself. As the flames blazed up and crackled through the dry branches, the life began to come back to her frozen limbs, and she roused herself to face her situation.

Her baby must be buried, and she must perform the task. She fashioned a rough coffin out of some planks, and tenderly laid the tiny body in it. As she fastened down the lid it seemed to her that every nail went through her own heart, but she did not weep. Her eyes had long since ceased to know the comfort of tears. Wearily she climbed the hillside with her little burden, wondering within herself how much longer it would be before she could lay her worn-out limbs beside those three rude graves, and be done with suffering for ever.

The baby must not lie alone; she would open Claude's grave, and lay him beside his father. The frozen ground was almost impenetrable, and it was long before she succeeded in digging a hole deep enough to admit the coffin. But patiently she toiled; slowly, with weak hands, hacking the soil, and scraping the lumps out of the grave. At last she had made a shallow opening which would hold the box, and when it was placed within she knelt beside it, holding the crucifix which had saved Claude from the waves, and prayed that their souls might rest in peace. A sudden impulse seized her. All that she had treasured, all that she had lived for, was in that grave. The crucifix was the last precious thing left to her, and she laid it upon the coffin of her child. Then, without trusting herself to kneel there longer, she rose hurriedly, cast back the frozen soil into the double grave, and piled large stones in a heap over the top, to prevent any animal scratching away the earth. Then she went back to her hut, and resumed the weary round of her hopeless, solitary life.

To a modern mind it may seem strange that reason did not utterly desert her; but the age in which she lived may help to account for the strength which sustained her. Though of noble blood, and tenderly nurtured, she had been accustomed to view scenes of death and hardship with a calm eye. Young as she was, she had beheld death in many forms; and the sieges which her uncle's castle had several times resisted had taught her something of a man's strength and endurance, which, coupled with a woman's tenacious vitality, made her doubly strong. Then, too, she had not been unfamiliar with loneliness. In her youthful days, before Marie de Vignan had come to live with her, she had often been left alone for weeks, with no one to relieve the monotony of her existence save old Bastienne and the other servants; and during these periods she had rarely spoken to any human being, save to issue some command. And now, though she was absolutely alone, the struggle for existence, and the presence of the young bear, her sole living companion, saved her reason. Sometimes, however, the unwonted sound of her own voice made her start and wonder if she who had spoken could really be one with the desolate creature who trod this snow-clad island, hopelessly scanning the horizon for some sign that there was a world other than the narrow one within whose limits she was hemmed.

Night she dreaded. She kept her fire going through the long hours of darkness, but often the glowing embers and tongues of flame would take weird shapes before her eyes. Across the island the wind swept and moaned, and every sound seemed to her the voice of some of the fabled evil spirits of the north. Often she would wake from sleep feeling ghostly presences near her—at her very side. At such times she would creep close to her strange companion, Francois, and nestle against his shaggy coat. The warmth of his body, and the thick, soft rug which they had made from the skin of the old she-bear, were all that saved her from perishing of the bitter cold of that terrible winter.

It was with unutterable relief that she saw the spring sun return, and felt the warm south wind breathe upon the island hollows. Daily she had watched with hopeless eyes for the sail that never came; but now, as the green shoots began to glisten here and there on the brown sod, she once more built her watchfire high on the cliff, and kept it blazing night and day.

Winter seemed suddenly to have given place to summer. All through April the warm sun streamed down upon the island, and for hours she sat looking out over the blue stretch of scarcely moving water. But fickle spring had a change in store. A chill, icy breath swept down from the north; the pines and birches moaned and sighed once more; and the great green waves crashed foaming on the beach. Her heart sank within her; but ever southward she gazed. An inward voice seemed still to assure her that help was on its way to her, and that her sufferings were nearly at an end.

At last, on the second day of the storm, her eye caught sight, on the broken horizon, of a sail. Steadily she watched it till there could no longer be any doubt of its reality; and then she heaped a huge pile of brushwood upon her fire. They had seen it! Nearer and nearer the vessel was drawing. At last she was to be rescued!



CHAPTER XVII

When Charles arrived at St Malo he found that his messenger, Etienne Brule, had reached the town in safety, and that De Roberval's horse was being well looked after in Cartier's stables. No pursuit was attempted, and it became evident that Etienne's master would make no effort to bring him back.

In fact, De Roberval, who knew that La Pommeraye was the soul of honour, and that no one would believe him capable of a falsehood, felt that his own wisest course would be silence. He knew that at the least move on his part La Pommeraye would be able to turn all tongues against him; and if the young man had, as he had hinted, any influence with the Duke of Guise, he would undoubtedly call down upon him the heavy hand of the great minister, who had already no love for the ambitious little nobleman.

Charles, too, was kept silent by what he had learned. His old sunny smile had left him, and when he spoke, his once full, mellow voice had a hard, metallic ring. Cartier scarce recognised him, and his questions received but scant answers, which kept him from enquiring further.

"De Pontbriand may still live," said Charles. "Mdlle. de Roberval may still live, and I must restore them to France, or make sure that they are dead. If I find them not, God help De Roberval!"

"God help him in any case!" said Cartier to himself. "Your spirit will never rest till it has spilt the little tyrant's blood. But when," he added, "do you expect to start for the New World?"

"At once."

"Nay, that's impossible. You would have some difficulty in getting sailors to venture out on the Atlantic at this season."

"If I cannot get men to accompany me," said Charles, "Etienne and I will go alone;" and as he spoke, Etienne, who was standing by in Cartier's orchard, where the conversation took place, nodded assent, and muttered a determined "Ay, that we will!" He, too, was thinking of his fair young mistress, who had always seemed to him like one of the blessed saints; and when he pictured her pining for her home through the dreary autumn and torturing winter in Canada, he would gladly have risked the voyage single-handed.

It was no easy matter to get a vessel. Roberval had returned, and Charles had no longer his former excuse. It was rumoured at court that the lovers had been punished for flaunting immorality; and to tell why he wanted the ship would be to drag the names of Claude and Marguerite through the mire. This he would not do. He would not even let himself think of what De Roberval had told him. It was not—it could not be true! It was true that he had awakened from his dream; he knew that he could never win Marguerite. What he had learned from Etienne and from her uncle had banished that wild hope; and all the little circumstances in their lives, which had before passed unnoticed, now rose before him to show him how blind and foolish he had been. But he loved her none the less—rather the more. And when he thought of what she and her lover must have endured on that desolate island, in the great northern ocean, his brain beat and his heart throbbed till he thought he must surely go mad. To save himself, he felt he must start on his journey as soon as possible.

But there were difficulties in the way. Cartier had disposed of his ships, and taken up his permanent residence at Limoilou. To purchase a new vessel would cost money; and Charles, ever prodigal, had but small means that he could call his own. On Cartier he depended for help; but that shrewd seaman knew how the enterprise must end, and instead of putting his hand into his money-bag, he did his utmost to dissuade La Pommeraye from his purpose.

Finding, however, that his friend had determined on the journey, he at length got several St Malo merchants to join with him in fitting out a small craft of fifty tons, ostensibly for the fur trade. The vessel was an old one, but had several times weathered the Atlantic, and a number of her old crew expressed themselves willing to join La Pommeraye if he would offer them a sufficient wage. He had hard work, however, in getting together six trusty fellows, who, with Etienne and himself, would undertake the winter journey. But by the beginning of December all was ready, and the little vessel, amid shaking of heads and prophecies of misfortune from the knowing ones, steered away for the Channel, and out towards the Atlantic, where even then a storm was raging.

But they were to meet with disappointment at the very beginning of their voyage. The masts creaked and groaned; the planks quivered; the oakum became loose in the seams; and on the second day out it was found that the vessel had sprung a leak. Pump as they would, they could not lessen the water in the hold; and though La Pommeraye would fain have held on his way, discretion compelled him to turn his vessel's head about, and run for the port he had just left.

When he reached harbour, the deck of the ship was almost to the water's edge. There was nothing to do but to run her ashore. When the water was pumped out of her, it was found that she was in a badly strained condition, and that several planks in her hull were completely worm-eaten. She had to be drawn up high and dry, and carpenters set to work to give her a thorough overhauling. By the time she was again ready for sea, the January snows had begun to whiten the fields about St Malo. Nothing daunted, La Pommeraye determined to venture again, and Etienne stood by him; but when they came to look for their crew, they found that the fellows had all fled St Malo, and could not be found. No other men were willing to take their places; and through the winter, La Pommeraye, like one distraught, went up and down the streets seeking seamen. But none would join his expedition. The inhabitants of the town came to look upon him as mad, and wondered what evil influence there could be in the New World dragging him to it. Even the merchants regretted the money put into the venture; but Cartier would not let them withdraw.

It was not until spring that the Marie, for so the little craft was called, was ready for sea, fully manned once more. Just when the March showers were beginning to rejuvenate the earth she drew away from the town; and Cartier, who stood on the wall watching her go forth, wondered what the end would be. It could only be tragic. No company could live through two dreary winters on a lonely island without losing some of their number, and he doubted not that all were dead. He half regretted, as he watched his friend's sail drop down beneath the horizon, that he had not gone with him. But the three disappointments the New World had already given him made him dread its shores, and he shuddered as he thought of the gruesome tidings which must await La Pommeraye on that lonely northern isle. He shuddered, too, as he thought of De Roberval. Fate is sometimes slow-footed, but he felt certain that it must at last rush with unerring speed to the destruction of the man who had wrecked so many lives.

La Pommeraye kept on every stitch of canvas his little ship would carry, and after four weeks' sailing, before a favouring breeze, the southern coast of Newfoundland was reached. So far, they had had no trying weather, and their hearts beat high with hope that their journey would end without mishap. They ran into the harbour of St John, replenished their almost empty water-casks, and then started on their final trip towards the Isle of Demons.

But April is a treacherous month. It had been up to this time summer-like, with a hot sun and gentle southern breezes. Now the wind shifted to the north; the clouds crept across the sky leaden and low; a heavy snowfall descended upon them; and it seemed that winter was returning. Charles was only the more anxious to reach the island, and crowded on canvas. But the bending masts and crashing seas finally made him reef his sails, and his little ship for several days beat her difficult way northward. La Pommeraye himself spent most of his time in the crosstrees, keeping an anxious lookout for his destination. It seemed to him that he would never reach it; and the storm, which had increased instead of diminishing as the days went on, threatened to swamp his vessel. The sailing-master besought him to turn about and run for the harbour of St John. He saw that he would be compelled to do so; but before giving the command, he once more went aloft and scanned the broken, misty horizon. His keen eye soon discerned a dark spot, which appeared and disappeared as the Marie rose and fell on the waves. Nearer it drew, and to his unutterable joy he saw a pillar of smoke rise from it, and, growing in volume, spread in a mighty cloud over the waters.

"It is they! They live!" shouted La Pommeraye, and sliding down a backstay, seized his sailing-master's arm, and pointed to the hopeful signal.

The sailors saw it, too. They knew the island, and crossed themselves fearfully as they gazed upon what they believed to be the smoke of the pit. To all except Etienne and La Pommeraye it seemed as if they were rushing recklessly upon destruction. As if to buttress their fears, the stormy north-east wind blew with redoubled fury, and wave after wave swept over the ship, threatening to crush in their decks. The island was now within a mile of them, and the pillar of smoke still rose, beckoning them onward. But La Pommeraye's hopes were to be dashed to the ground. A wave mightier than its fellows broke against the high bows, and catching the Marie amidships, sent tons of water on her decks. Before she could recover and throw it off, a succession of similar waves rolled in upon her, and all seemed lost.

"Our only hope," cried the sailing-master, "is to 'bout ship, and run before the wind. No vessel could anchor in this storm, even if we did reach yon island; and unless the gale lessens, we must sooner or later be swamped."

There was nothing else for it, and La Pommeraye unwillingly consented. The little craft was with difficulty brought about. Every scrap of canvas was lowered, and she went scudding along under bare poles, with the huge seas climbing high about her lofty poop, seeking to drown her.

When Marguerite saw the vessel which had been bearing down upon her begin to recede, her heart failed her altogether. They had seen her signal, and yet they were deserting her. For months she had watched in vain; at last her hope seemed about to be realised; and when she saw it vanish she was left more desolate than ever. Gladly at that moment would she have welcomed death; and indeed it could not long delay now. Her ammunition was exhausted; she was living principally on the eggs of the shore birds and the fish which she was once more able to procure occasionally. But such precarious means could not last long; it was only a question of time.

She sat on the cliff, unheeding the storm which beat about her head and scattered the embers of her fire. The anguish of her position forced itself upon her. To be left on the island meant a slow and torturing death; and yet, had she been rescued, she must have left behind her all that she had loved. She prayed that she might die at once.

But Heaven had ordered otherwise. Life and hope were to return to her; her imprisonment was nearly over.

La Pommeraye's vessel drove before the gale until the high cliffs of St John's harbour loomed up before her. They were a welcome sight, for the little craft had been so strained by the struggle against the storm, that she had sprung a leak, and it was with difficulty that the sailors kept the water in the hold from gaining on them. But within the harbour the waters were comparatively calm; and when the anchor was cast, a careful examination showed that the leak was immediately above the water-line, and could be easily remedied. All through the night the wind howled through the rigging; and all through the night La Pommeraye, unable to rest, paced the deck like a caged tiger. On the following morning the storm still raged, and it was not till the next day that they were able to make for the open sea. The wind had now shifted to the south, and a gentle breeze was rippling the surface of the giant rollers over which they plunged on their northward way.

Four days had elapsed since Marguerite had seen the vessel disappear; and four terrible days she had spent, roaming like one demented over her island prison. All day she heard the voices of the demons calling from every cliff and cave, and at night they beat upon the walls of her cabin, and seemed to keep up a fierce, demoniacal laughter over the graves on the hillside. Had it not been for Francois, she would have rushed into the great green waves which rolled up on the shore, bent on her own destruction; but the presence of the faithful creature, who followed her about from cliff to cliff, as she looked east and west, north and south, over the waste of waters; who sat by with pathetic wonder as she lay stretched at length upon her loved ones' graves; who guarded her through the darkness while the demons were howling above her abode—saved her from herself. She longed for death; she would have shrunk from the thought of leaving the island where Claude lay, but the principle of life which would not die demanded that she should save herself if it were possible. And while she prayed for death to come, she strained her eyes in the hope of seeing some approaching sail.

At last the storm abated. The waves still climbed the island reaches, but the warm breeze told her that the time of danger was past. A hope which would not be crushed out whispered to her that the vessel she had seen had been on its way to the island, and as the storm went down, the same wild hope suggested to her that it would come back. Till darkness fell she gazed, and when day broke she stood on the "lookout," scanning the far horizon. At last she was rewarded. A dim, white speck stood out against the clear sky. Swiftly it approached. Gradually the white sails showed distinct, then the black hull appeared, and there, before her, lay a vessel of her own land—a vessel from La Belle France. She moved not, nor spoke, and by her side sat Francois on his haunches, as motionless as herself. A cannon boomed from the ship, and its echoes awoke a myriad birds, which flew screaming across the waves, or plunged into the ocean. It was a strange sound to Marguerite—a voice from her old home, calling her back to life.

With joy La Pommeraye had sighted once more the rocky point of land upon the horizon. But a keen pang of disappointment seized him when he looked in vain for the signal which had told him there was yet life on the island. Could they have perished in the storm? Could his approach, when they were on the verge of the grave, have served only to tantalise them, and make the end the harder? Such thoughts beat in his brain, as he vainly watched for any sign of life.

At last Etienne touched his arm.

"Look, Monsieur, they live! There stand two figures on yonder cliff."

As he spoke, all eyes turned towards the projecting spur, and as the keen-visioned sailors caught sight of Marguerite and her uncouth companion, they fell on their knees and crossed themselves in holy awe. La Pommeraye quickly had the sails run down and the anchor dropped; and before Marguerite could leave her station, the gun boomed forth its welcome.

Down to the beach she went to meet the approaching boat, and even La Pommeraye was awed when he saw her figure coming towards him.

Her clothes had been patched and mended till it was impossible to mend them any longer, and they now hung in tatters about her. Her hair, once so black and glossy, was streaked with white, and her face wore the look of one who has known all that life has to give of joy and of sorrow, and who has walked in the presence of death as with a friend. By her side shambled the young bear, a shaggy, ferocious-looking monster, enough of itself to strike terror to the hearts of the amazed sailors. The men in the boat lost their courage, and their nerveless hands refused to grasp the oars. But the stern, commanding voice of La Pommeraye restored their presence of mind. The boat's keel grated on the rocks, and La Pommeraye leaped ashore and fell on his knees before the pale ghost of the woman he had loved so faithfully, and followed through half the world.

"Mademoiselle!" he said, but he could get no further. His heart had risen in his throat, and was choking him. She, too, stood like one stunned, her knees trembling, her brain swimming. She would have fallen, but that she took his extended hand to support herself.

The bear had been growling uneasily at her side, and when he saw La Pommeraye's hand touch his mistress, he gave a savage growl, and was about to spring upon the intruder. Marguerite bade him down, and the obedient creature crouched at her feet.

"Mademoiselle has a strange guardian," said La Pommeraye, who had risen at the animal's approach.

"He has kept me alive, Monsieur. But for him I should have gone mad, or cast myself into the sea."

"Where are your companions?"

La Pommeraye shuddered as he asked the question, but he could keep it back no longer.

"It is well with them," she answered calmly; "they sleep behind yonder hill."

"Dead?" exclaimed La Pommeraye, beneath his breath.

"All dead," was her quiet reply.

"And yet you live! How long have you endured the loneliness of this dreary spot?"

"Claude died before the snows fell, and since then Francois and I have lived I know not how. I have tried to die, but Heaven has been too kind."

La Pommeraye turned away his head, and the sobs he could no longer restrain shook him from head to foot. He struggled for self-control. At last he turned to her, and took her hand to lead her to the boat.

"Your old servant, Etienne Brule, is with me," he said. "He waits in the boat for you. He will look after you while I collect whatever may be in your hut."

But she drew back a little from him.

"Monsieur, I cannot——" and for the first time her voice faltered. "I cannot leave my dead!"

Even at that moment Charles was conscious of a fierce throb at his heart, as he realised that the woman he loved had irrevocably, for life and for death, given her life to his friend.

As she spoke she turned, and led him past the hut, and up the hill to the little group of graves. The hour of utter separation had come, and she could say nothing. La Pommeraye felt that a word from him would be sacrilege. Silent she stood there, torn between the fearful pang of parting, and the realisation that she must go. At last her will conquered, and she turned to La Pommeraye, saying simply: "I am ready, Monsieur."

Of the fourth who slept in that lonely hillside cemetery she said not a word. The young life had come into being, and had passed away again, there, in this desert spot, amidst the trackless wastes of ocean, unknown to any save the two whose souls it had for ever linked indissolubly. Why should the world be told? The island would keep her secret; and no one in France should ever learn that her child and Claude's lay at rest in his father's grave.

She kneeled and kissed the stones which marked the spot; and then, without one backward look, she followed La Pommeraye to the hut.

There was little to take with her—the bearskin rug which had been her salvation through the bitter winter, and one or two precious personal trifles which were all that were left of her dead. La Pommeraye's heart was bursting within him as he saw how she had lived, and guessed what she must have endured. In silence they went down to the shore.

"Poor Francois!" Marguerite said, throwing her arms about the neck of the faithful beast. "Poor Francois!" and there was a world of meaning in her tone.

Soon they were ready to leave the island; and the wondering sailors, who knew nothing of her story—for Etienne had kept a sacred silence—shuddered as she stepped into the boat.

When the bear saw his mistress deserting him he leaped into the water, and tried to swim after her. Becoming wearied with the effort, however, he was obliged to give it up and swim back to the shore, where he paced up and down the beach with his rolling, awkward gait, his eyes fixed on the retreating boat.

As the ship sailed away, the sailors could see his white form standing in melancholy solitude on the highest point of the cliff. When the vessel was but a speck in the distance, he turned his eyes shoreward, and saw a seal basking in the sun. Stealthily he crept down the cliff and along the shore, his huge claws sank into the neck of the unsuspecting beast, and with savage delight he tore it in pieces.



CHAPTER XVIII

As the vessel sailed away from the Isle of Demons, La Pommeraye had but one thought—to get back to France at once and confront De Roberval. But before he had sailed many miles he remembered that he had a duty to perform to the merchants of St Malo who had fitted out his little ship. The course was changed, the vessel's bow turned westward, and after a few days' sail he cast anchor in the black waters at the mouth of the great gorge of the Saguenay. He was welcomed by the Indians, whose huts clustered about the high cliffs and along the sandy stretches of that rugged spot. Runners were sent out to the surrounding Indian villages, and in a few days his vessel was almost sunk to the decks with a rich cargo of furs.

All this time Marguerite kept out of sight, only coming on deck in the evenings when it was dark, and she could be alone. She shunned companionship, and scarcely spoke, even to La Pommeraye. A deep and settled melancholy brooded over her soul. When her little island sank from sight on the horizon, it seemed to her that all she loved on earth was lost to her for ever. Night and day she saw before her eyes that lonely grave on the hillside where her heart lay buried; and at times the longing to return to it grew too strong for her, and she was tempted to beg La Pommeraye to take her back. But the kindly French faces about her, the French voices which sounded like music in her ears, the generous, thoughtful consideration of Claude's old comrade, restored her to her right mind. Quiet, good food, comparative comfort, and sleep wrought a marvellous change in her, and by the time they were on their way towards France, she was able to talk a little, and to give Charles an outline of her story.

Six weeks after this the merchants of St Malo saw a deeply-laden craft sweeping into the harbour under a cloud of canvas. She was no fisherman; and many who had money invested in sea ventures flocked to the walls. Among the rest stood the keen-sighted Cartier, who never heard of the approach of a vessel from foreign shores but he thought of La Pommeraye. Scarcely had he caught sight of the ship when he exclaimed:

"It is the Marie, and loaded to the decks!" And to himself he added: "Back so soon? His work must be finished; and now, God have mercy on De Roberval!"

When the ship cast anchor, Cartier was one of the first to reach her, and, hurrying on board, he warmly embraced his friend. Then he placed him at arm's length, and, with his hand upon his shoulder, eagerly scanned his countenance, as if to learn from it what tidings he had brought. La Pommeraye did not speak, but his face told Cartier that all was not well.

"You have been at the Isle of Demons?" he asked at last.

"I have."

"And found there?—De Pontbriand—is he still alive?"

Charles controlled himself with an effort to answer:

"Think you, if Claude de Pontbriand were on board, he would stay below while Jacques Cartier boarded his vessel?"

"He is dead?"

"Dead!"

"And Mdlle. de Roberval?"

"She alone, of all the party, is left alive. She lived on in that bleak spot in the midst of the Atlantic, while her nurse and her companion perished, and at last, with her own hands, she buried Claude. One other death must follow to complete the tragedy."

Cartier wrung his friend's hand in silence. He was no longer young; but something of the fierce rage which burned in La Pommeraye's breast burst into flame in his own, as he looked at the worn and saddened face of the once buoyant young adventurer. "God help De Roberval!" he once more thought, "and God speed the arm that strikes the blow!"

"But come below," said Charles, after a few moments' oppressive silence, "and see Mdlle. de Roberval for yourself. I wish no one but you to know for the present that she has returned to France. I will leave you with her, and attend to these Malouins, who have, no doubt, come to see what return I can give them for the sous they invested in the Marie."

Cartier could not restrain a start of dismay when he was ushered into the little cabin, where Marguerite sat awaiting him. He had last seen her, little more than four years before, a beautiful girl, in the full, radiant charm of budding womanhood. She stood before him now, worn and aged, with white hair and the face of a woman of fifty instead of a girl of twenty-six. But her figure was as upright as ever, and her carriage as queenly; her dark eyes had lost none of their fire—though their depths held the secret of her life's tragedy—and her voice, when she spoke, had gained in fulness and richness what it had lost in girlish brightness and gaiety.

Cartier controlled himself, and allowed no sign of pity or sympathy to appear in his face or voice.

"Mademoiselle," he said simply, "I welcome you back to France. If you will deign to accept my hospitality, my house and all that I have are at your service for as long as you will make use of them."

Marguerite thanked him with her old, quiet dignity. She never lost her self-control through all the trying scenes of her return to the land she had left under such different auspices—so little dreaming what her home-coming would be. When Charles had succeeded in getting rid of the merchants who crowded his decks, he conducted her on shore. Cartier, moved with fatherly compassion towards the young girl whose sufferings seemed more like legend than reality, insisted that she should stay with him and his family till a meeting with De Roberval could be arranged.

A messenger was despatched to Picardy, but returned with the information that De Roberval had long been absent from his castle. He was busy in the wars; but as Paris would doubtless be his head-quarters, Charles and Marguerite determined to seek him there.

All this time no word of love had crossed La Pommeraye's lips. He yearned with unutterable longing to claim as his own the right to cherish and protect Marguerite for the rest of her life, but daily he realised how deep was the gulf which separated them. Her heart, he knew, could only be won across Claude's grave, and each time that he tried to speak, the vision of the desolate cemetery on the island rose before him, and the words froze on his lips. Marguerite could not help seeing his devotion; but she so carefully avoided giving him any sign of encouragement that the weeks at the manor-house of Limoilou, and the subsequent journey to Paris, were both passed without La Pommeraye's being able to get any nearer to her. Ungrateful she could not be. She felt for the fair giant a tender, sisterly affection, and learned to understand how Claude and Marie had both had for him such an unbounded admiration.

At Paris Charles established her in a secluded quarter—for although she had friends in the city, both deemed it wise that for the present, absolutely no one should know of her return. All deemed her dead; and for a time she must still be dead to the world. La Pommeraye was careful to avoid his old haunts and friends, but in no way relaxed his quest of information about De Roberval's movements. He learned that the nobleman was not then in the city, but that within a week he would return.

With this news he hastened to Marguerite. She was deeply moved on learning that she was so soon to be confronted with her uncle. How should she meet him? What would he have to say to her, whom he doubtless believed long dead?

Her life had become a strange chaos. She hardly knew why she had allowed herself to be brought to Paris. It would be impossible ever to resume the old relations with her uncle; but to live much longer dependent upon strangers was out of the question. Some arrangements for her future must be made without delay, but in any case De Roberval must be informed of her presence. Feeling of any kind seemed almost dead within her, but remembering the circumstances of their parting, she could not look forward to meeting her uncle again without a tremor of anticipation.

She noted the fire in La Pommeraye's eye, as he walked up and down her apartment, after giving her the information; and a day or two afterwards when he came to consult her about some business matters, she asked him what his plans were.

"I shall seek out Sieur de Roberval," said Charles, "as soon as he arrives, and arrange a meeting between you in whatever way you may direct me. And then——"

He checked himself abruptly; but Marguerite saw the flash of his eye, and the resolute expression his mouth assumed as he kept back the words which had been on his lips. She laid her hand gently on his arm.

"M. de la Pommeraye," she said, "you have proved yourself a true and devoted friend to me. I know that I can never hope to repay your unselfish sacrifices; nor can I ever express even a small part of my gratitude for all that you have so nobly done. Nay, listen to me——" as Charles was about to interrupt her. "I feel more deeply than I can tell you; you must let me speak this once. I am not ungrateful, believe me." Her voice trembled a little, though she controlled it instantly. "But I am about to ask one more kindness at your hands. There has been enough blood shed—too much. Unhappy woman that I am, how shall I render an account of all the deaths of which I have been the cause?" She turned away for a moment; and the rare sobs shook her slight figure. Charles was awed into silence before a sorrow too deep for any words. At last she turned to him, and with an imploring gesture said: "I beg of you to spare my uncle's life."

La Pommeraye began his habitual stride up and down the room. His brow was dark, and he gnawed his underlip savagely. That she should plead for the life of the man who had brought all this upon her was to him inexplicable. Was he then to be baulked of his revenge?

Marguerite stood awaiting his answer.

"Monsieur," she said at last, "will you add one more to my sorrows?"

The unutterable sadness of the tone went to La Pommeraye's heart. Impulsively he knelt before her.

"Mademoiselle," he said, "if an angel from heaven had appeared to me and asked me to have mercy on that villain, I should have perilled my own soul rather than let him go unpunished. But now——"

His voice failed him. He took her hand and gazed into her face. All his soul was in his eyes; and in that yearning look Marguerite read his secret. He was about to speak, but she stopped him.

"Rise," she said gently, "you are too noble to kneel to me. You are my best friend—the only friend I have in the world. Remember, I am entirely alone. I trust you, Monsieur; I place myself absolutely in your hands. Will you grant my request?"

She had chosen her words well. Charles saw that she had understood him, and had wished to prevent his speaking of his love. The gentle reminder of her helpless dependence on him called forth all his manhood and chivalry, and silenced the passionate avowal he had been about to make. He pressed her hand, and raised it to his lips.

"Your wish is my law, Mademoiselle," he said, and, controlling himself with an effort, he bade her adieu and hastened from the house.

Out in the streets of the city he walked, he cared not whither. Passers-by turned to look at him; but he heeded no one. He strode on, absorbed in his own inward struggle, till he drew near the Church of the Innocents, in the heart of the city. A party of nobles were approaching, and as they passed him, a burst of laughter from among them attracted his attention. He raised his eyes; saw De Roberval, and his sword leaped from its scabbard. Half-a-dozen other weapons instantly flashed in the sunlight; but La Pommeraye, recollecting that he had no quarrel with any save one of their number, sheathed his blade, and unheeding the shouts of welcome from some of the party who recognised him, beckoned De Roberval aside from the group.

"My presence here alarms you," he said, for the nobleman's sudden pallor had not escaped his notice. "And with good reason. I have but just returned from the Isle of Demons."

"Indeed; and what concern of mine is that?" returned De Roberval, with an assumption of carelessness, though he could not altogether steady his voice.

Charles looked him straight in the face.

"Coward and murderer!" he said between his teeth.

"They are dead then?" said De Roberval, still striving to speak calmly.

"Dead!"

De Roberval had taken a quick resolve. Mastering himself with a great effort, he said hurriedly: "We cannot speak of it now. Meet me to-night at this spot, and the darkest tale you have to tell I will listen to. If you desire my life, I am weary of it, and would gladly lay it down."

The man had aged greatly since Charles last saw him. His shoulders were bent; his hair was almost white; and his face was thin and worn. Something in his voice made Charles believe that he was sincere, and for a moment a feeling almost akin to pity stirred in his heart.

"It is well," said he. "To-night, at eight o'clock, I will be here," and without so much as a word to the nobleman's companions, he strode away. He returned to Marguerite, and told her of the encounter with her uncle, and the meeting which had been arranged for the evening. The news evidently agitated her greatly.

"Have you told him of my presence here?" she asked. "Does he expect me to meet him?"

"He knows naught of your return," answered La Pommeraye. "I had no opportunity to tell him. He thinks you perished on the island."

"But you will tell him to-night?"

"I have been thinking of a plan," said Charles. "Would it not be well for you to wait within the Church of the Innocents, where I am to meet him, while I warn him of your return, and prepare him to meet you?"

Marguerite grasped at the idea. She dreaded, above all things, another quarrel between La Pommeraye and her uncle; and her presence would be a safeguard against bloodshed. As she prepared to accompany Charles, her thoughts went back to that other evening—nearly five years before—when she had been present at an encounter between these same two men. The object she now had in view was the same—to save her uncle's life; but the circumstances—how different! Could the veil have been lifted from the future on that first meeting, would she not have been tempted to leave him to the mercy of his enemy's sword? And now she was accompanying that enemy—who had proved himself her friend when she had no other in all the world—to keep him from avenging her wrongs upon the man who should have been her natural protector. Her brain swam as these thoughts crowded upon her; and she was glad to take refuge in the dimly-lighted church, and to quiet her distracted spirit in silent prayer before the altar.

La Pommeraye, outside, paced up and down, awaiting De Roberval's arrival. His hand was on his sword-hilt, and his watchful eye kept a sharp look-out on all sides; for in spite of the nobleman's parting words to him in the afternoon, he had already had but too good reason to suspect him of treachery.

And in fact, De Roberval had resolved within himself to add yet one more brutal deed to the long list which had ruined his life, and changed him from a gentleman and a man of honour to a bully, a coward, and an assassin. La Pommeraye had returned to France. He had but to open his lips, and De Roberval's life was at his mercy. Nor could the nobleman recover from the stinging indignity and humiliation which Charles had put upon him at their last meeting. From first to last, he had owed him a bitter grudge—all the more bitter, because, in a moment of cowardice, he had taken advantage of the noble fellow's generosity to shield himself from defeat and dishonour. No, there was no alternative; La Pommeraye must die; and with that death all evidence of his crimes would be removed. He had no fear from the men who had accompanied Charles to America; he had made inquiries, and learned that they were none but fishermen and sailors; and any version of the story they might have brought back would be too garbled and exaggerated to be believed.

But he feared La Pommeraye's sword, and under his doublet he put on a shirt of mail. Seeking the quarters of a reckless cut-throat, who would have assassinated his own father for a few sous, he gave him a purse of gold, and letting him know the nature of the work before him, bade him strike sure and sharp, as soon as La Pommeraye was engaged in conversation; and instead of a purse, he would fill his cap with gold.

At the appointed hour he went to the rendezvous, where La Pommeraye was impatiently awaiting him.

The nobleman's demeanour had entirely changed since he left Charles in the afternoon. He now assumed the dignity of a man who has been unjustly suspected, and is prepared to avenge an insult.

"So, Monsieur," he said, as Charles approached him, "you are still determined to harrow up the past, and to compel me to acknowledge once more the dishonour which has befallen my name."

"I am here," said Charles, his hot blood all aflame in an instant at the implied slur on Marguerite, "to call you to account for the death of Claude de Pontbriand, and for the foul wrong you did your innocent niece."

As he spoke he rested his hand on his sword. De Roberval saw the action, thought he meant to draw it, and his own weapon flashed from its sheath. At this moment Marguerite appeared at the door of the church. She saw her uncle draw his sword, and thinking they were about to fight, rushed down the steps just as De Roberval made a pass at La Pommeraye, who, adroitly stepping aside, escaped being wounded, and drawing his own sword, stood on the defensive. As he did so, he heard a step behind him. A sudden instinct warned him; leaping back, he barely escaped a treacherous thrust from behind. At the same instant, De Roberval caught sight of his niece's pale face in the uncertain light; and, striking wildly at La Pommeraye, fell forward at the latter's feet.

Charles heeded him not. His blood was roused, and turning on the would-be assassin, who was about to flee in terror, he ran him through the heart.

Then seeing that De Roberval made no attempt to rise, he stooped and turned him on his side, and saw that his hand clung in a death-grip to his sword-hilt, while the point of the weapon had pierced his brain. It was Bayard's sword; the sword the king had given him in the hour of his ambition. In his terror at the sudden apparition of what he believed to be his niece's spirit, his foot had slipped, and the stroke he had intended for La Pommeraye had ended his own life.



CHAPTER XIX

Next day all Paris knew the details of De Roberval's death. He had been set upon by an assassin, had struck his would-be murderer down, and slipping in the blood of his victim, had fallen on his own sword, thus ending the brightest career in France. So ran the report; and there was no one to contradict it.

La Pommeraye, when he had ascertained that Roberval was indeed dead, had had but one thought—to get Marguerite away from the spot before the crowd which, attracted by the scuffle, had already begun to gather, should become aware of her presence. He hastily drew her back into the church; hurried her by a side exit into another street; and so conveyed her, half-fainting, to her home. When she was able to listen she learned the truth from his own lips. Her mind went back over the terrible scene through which she had passed; she saw her uncle lying side by side in death with a paid cut-throat; and suddenly there flashed across her brain the words which Claude had uttered as he stood on the deck of L'Heureux, the noose about his neck: "May you perish miserably by your own murderous hand."

Paris went into mourning. The court, the Church, the city, all laid aside their usual occupations to do honour to the remains of him who had upheld in two worlds the glory of France, who had been a devout son of the Church, and who had ever kept the name of his monarch as a talisman against his foes. His body, after lying in state for three days, was buried with all the pomp and ceremonial due to his rank and fame; and the real truth concerning his death remained a secret in the hearts of the two he had so cruelly wronged.

Marguerite's return to France could not be for ever kept unknown; and, indeed, since her uncle's death, there was no further need for concealment. Her story—or as much of it as she chose to make public—soon began to spread abroad. Many and garbled were the versions of it which were circulated at the court and in the city. But to most of those who looked upon that noble and beautiful face, with its traces of bitter suffering, suspicion of evil was impossible. The friends who had known and loved her before her departure would gladly have welcomed her back; but she shunned all society. Never again could she mingle in the world of Paris. She accepted the invitation of an old and dearly-loved companion, and went to stay at a villa on the banks of the Seine.

Here, after a time, La Pommeraye ventured to visit her. As the weeks went by, the beautiful air of her native land, the constant companionship of friends, the return of health and strength, had begun to restore to her something of her lost youth; though the old vivacity was for ever gone. She welcomed La Pommeraye with more cheerfulness and freedom than he had dared to expect; and gradually he began to think that distance from the scene of her sorrows, and the removal of her uncle—the cause of all her suffering—were making her feel the past less keenly. In spite of his conviction that she would never love him, he almost began to hope. The old yearning pain which had never died stirred at his heart more uncontrollably than ever. He struggled manfully to show no signs of it, fearing lest he should lose even the joy of seeing her, but daily he threw himself in Marguerite's way, and daily he could not but feel that he was growing more necessary to her.

And, indeed, to the lonely and saddened woman, his companionship was an unspeakable comfort. The steadfast, broad-shouldered, handsome giant had saved her from untold horrors, he had proved his devotion to her at a cost which might well have appalled the bravest. She knew that whatever might happen to her, his strong arm was ready to shield her from evil for the rest of her life. Alone in the world as she was, she clung to him as her best and truest friend; she loved him indeed, with all the strength that was left her, though not in the way for which he longed. Her woman's eye saw through the restraint he put upon himself; she knew that his heart was unalterably hers, and that, sooner or later, some day he would speak. She dreaded the inevitable parting, and sought to defer it by every means in her power.

It came sooner than she expected. A period of comparative peace had given La Pommeraye's sword an unwonted rest, but hostilities were once more commenced, and he could not remain idle. His post was on the field, but he was unable to go till he had learned from Marguerite's own lips whether life still held a chance of happiness for him.

He was in Paris when the news came. After a few hurried preparations he left the city and hastened to her side. His heart beat wildly as he paced with her in the moonlight up and down the terrace overlooking the river. It was early spring—just a year since her rescue from the island. Thronging memories surged in her heart, and kept her from noticing the silence of her companion, till at last he spoke.

"Marguerite," he said, for he now called her by her name, at her own request, "I have to leave Paris to-morrow. There is hot work awaiting my sword in the south, and I must delay no longer."

She turned to him in sudden alarm; the news was quite unexpected.

"My friend—my brother," she said impulsively, "do not leave me! Not yet, not yet!"

The moment had come. The love pent up in La Pommeraye's heart would be restrained no longer, and burst from him in a torrent of passionate words. She could not stop him now; it was too late. She stood pale and silent as he poured forth all the love and longing of those weary years. Her heart was moved with a great compassion for him; but when, encouraged by her silence, he touched her hand, she drew it suddenly from him. Before her rose the dead face of him who had been as truly her husband as if a priest had blessed their marriage; she felt once more the touch of her child's lips at her breast; she saw again that double grave on the lonely hillside so many thousand miles away. She had loved once, and her heart was dead and buried in that far-off grave. Life held no second love for her, henceforth there was nothing left her but the memory of that which once had been. But her friend, her only support and comfort, must she lose him too? Heaven was cruel indeed to her. She covered her face with her hands.

"God help me!" she said shudderingly. "It cannot be."

He thought she was relenting. In an instant he had taken her hands in his, while he pleaded passionately for time, for hope; no promise, only permission to spend his life in her service, only a word to carry with him on his journey. But she had regained her self-control, and spoke now with a quiet, sad decision that was as a death-knell to his heart.

"My friend," she said, "I would have saved you this if I could. I have tried to spare you, and"—her voice trembled—"to spare myself. Hush," as he was about to interrupt, "it is because I do love you—though not in the way you wish—that I would have spared us both this parting. You are all I have left in the world—if I lose you, I am indeed alone."

She stopped a moment. There were no tears in the wide, dark eyes as she looked straight before her, over the gleaming river, but her face was white as death in the moonlight, and the lines about her mouth told of the hidden depths of feeling beneath that quiet exterior. Charles had sprung to his feet, an impetuous outburst on his lips, but she silenced him with uplifted hand.

"Come," she said, "let us continue our walk, and I will tell you what I have thought I should tell to no living being on earth."

And there, with tearless eyes and in a voice that never faltered, she told him the whole story of those three years on the island, omitting nothing, giving the outlines clearly and briefly, but with a vividness which burned the details on Charles' throbbing brain as if they had been branded with a hot iron.

"And now," she said, as she finished and turned to him, lifting her calm eyes to his pale and hopeless face, "now you will see why it is impossible that I should give you what you ask. My life was Claude's; I gave myself utterly to him. He suffered with me, he died for me; I have nothing left but his memory, but to that I shall be true till I die. My friend, do you understand now?"

He was on his knees before her. She gave him her hands unresistingly, and he laid his hot forehead against them for an instant. Then he looked up at her, and she saw that indeed he understood.

Her face, as she met his look, was full of an infinite tenderness and pity. Laying her hand gently on his head, she stooped and kissed him once upon the brow. The whole manner of the action was so austere, so full of the sadness and remoteness of one whom a vast, impassable gulf separates for ever from all human and familiar intercourse, that it told Charles more plainly than any words could have done, the hopelessness of his love. He bowed his head in silence a moment, then pressing his lips passionately to her hand, he rose and left her.

She never saw him again. When she realised that he was indeed gone, that the last link which bound her to her past was broken, she began to feel bitterly the utter loneliness of her lot. Alone in the world, without kith or kin; alone, without the possibility of ever unburdening her heart to any human being, the old madness which had stared her in the face on the Isle of Demons seemed about to return.

But she was to have a noble salvation. Her uncle's estates were now hers. The wars had left them poor, untilled, in a wretched condition. The peasants were starving, the ramparts of the castle were tumbling down, and robber bands were plundering what remained to her. A life of action was what she needed: her resolve was soon taken, and in less than a month she was on her way northward, taking with her a companion of her own rank who had consented to share her solitude.

The journey was a weary one. Repeatedly she would have turned back, but her determined will urged her on. She was the last De Roberval; the noble name was a sacred trust to her, and she would keep it noble to the end. When she reached her castle, the peasants who remembered her, and had thought her dead, flocked about her, weeping and laughing, kissing her horse and her garments, until, touched to the heart, she broke down and mingled her tears with theirs.

And now her true life began. At first it was hard. The old memories came crowding back upon her. Her uncle's face seemed to stare at her from the deserted halls; and when she entered the room where she and Marie had nursed and tended Claude through his illness, such an agony of remembrance rushed over her that it seemed as if at last her mind must be unhinged. She sought refuge in occupation; late and early she worked as no De Roberval had ever worked before, and her retainers called down blessings on her head. But when the toil of the day was over, and she sought her lonely pillow, she heard all night the booming of the waves on the rock-bound shore, and saw the faces of her dead staring at her out of the darkness.

Thus the days of her desolate widowhood dragged themselves by. Her youth was gone, and the grey hairs which had startled Cartier had now many companions. But they seemed only to add beauty and character to her sweet, sad face. She gave herself up to unselfish devotion to others and her duty; and as if the storms of her life had buffeted themselves into exhaustion in her youth, the rest of her days seemed destined to pass in peace and tranquillity—if not in happiness.

She heard at intervals from La Pommeraye. Means of communication were difficult and uncertain in those days, but he contrived to send her occasional messages, and to assure her of his undying devotion and readiness to serve her in any way she might need. Often her heart ached within her when tales were brought of a famous soldier who was ever in the brunt of the battle, who courted death, but whom death seemed to shun.

At last she learned of a desperate fight, in which the forces of France had almost come to wreck. A gallant hero had led his division to victory. During a short respite he had removed his helmet, and was watching the life-and-death struggle in the valley below him. Suddenly he saw the French line waver. Bidding his men follow him, and with his lion-like hair streaming in the wind, he galloped into the thick of the fray. Right and left he struck; left and right the enemy fell before him. The battle was won for France; but on a heap of corpses he was found with a bullet in his brain: "Dead on the field of honour"; dead in the prime of his strength; with an unblemished record, and a name dear to every soldier in the kingdom.

THE END

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