days earlier. Nor had
there been any storm during that time to dislodge them.

"Joe, your smuggling friends must have taken them."

"Non. He gat plenty log in Canada, him."

"What, then, has become of them?"

"Dunno. Maybe dev catch him."

"It is a human devil of some kind, then, and he must have carried them
still farther up the coast, for we should have seen them if they had
been carried the other way."

"Oui, m'sieu."

"Give way, men! I'm going to find those logs if they are anywhere on
Keweenaw Point."

So the light skiff shot ahead, with the two Bohemians rowing, and the
others in bow and stern, watching the coast sharply as they slipped
past its rocky front. They were already beyond any point at which
Peveril had previously discovered logs, and were rapidly approaching
the place of his mystery. He could see the jutting ledge, and was
eagerly scanning the cliffs above it, when suddenly Joe held up his
hand with a warning "Hist!"

Without a word Peveril gave the signal to stop rowing, which was
instantly obeyed. In the silence that followed they heard a sound of
singing. It was a plaintive melody, sung in a girlish voice,
untrained, but full and sweet. To his amazement Peveril recognized it
as one of the very latest songs of a popular composer, whose music he
had supposed almost unknown in America. The voice also seemed to be
close at hand.

At first the men gazed about them with an idle curiosity, but, not
seeing anyone, they began to grow uneasy, and to cast frightened
glances on every side.

"By gar!" exclaimed Joe Pintaud, and on the instant the singing
ceased.

The sudden silence was almost as disquieting as the voice of an
invisible singer, and again Joe uttered his favorite exclamation.

"Where did that voice come from?"

"Dunno, Mist Pearl. One tam I t'ink from rock, one tam from water.
Fust he come from ze hair, zen he gat under ze bateau. Bimeby he come
every somewhere. One tam I t'ink angele, me; one tam dev. Mostly I
t'ink dev."

"It seemed to me to come from the cliff," said Peveril.

"Oui; so I t'ink."

"Though I could also have sworn that it rose from the water."

"Oui, m'sieu. You say dev, I say dev."

By this time Peveril had again got his craft under way, and they were
skirting a wooded islet that lay off the coast just beyond the black
ledge. This island appeared to be nearly cut in two by a narrow bay;
but as those in the boat seemed to see every part of this, and were