ce there, they might hope to
win her uncle's consent to their union.

Claude, though ill-content with this arrangement, saw nothing for it but
to bide his time. He made no further effort to see Marguerite for the
present, but kept a careful watch over De Roberval's movements, that he
might know to a certainty when he intended to sail.

Winter came, and still the King did nothing. De Roberval was in Paris
with his household, and Claude had taken up his quarters in the same
city. At length tidings came which made De Roberval's heart bound with
hope once more. The King had at last roused himself; nay, he had already
purchased three ships--three noble vessels--and they even now lay in the
harbour of La Rochelle, ready for Roberval to equip and man. This was
late in February. All through March the nobleman superintended the
storing of the powder, the loading of the guns, and the procuring of the
crews. This last was no easy matter. But few of the hardy French sailors
would venture on the voyage, and in despair Roberval was compelled to
get together his crews and colonists almost entirely from the prisons.

Early in April everything was completed; and one bright morning the
three vessels stole out through the surrounding islands, caught the last
glimpse of the lantern tower, and sailed away for America. Marguerite
and Marie, with the faithful Bastienne, stood on the deck of De
Roberval's ship, gazing back at the shores of La Belle France. A cloud
seemed to hang over their departure, and it had none of the joyous
excitement they had anticipated. Marguerite was torn asunder between her
love for Claude and her ideas of duty to her uncle. A message from De
Pontbriand had assured her that he intended to join the expedition, and
she supposed him to have managed to embark on one of the other ships;
but her heart was heavy within her at the thought of her uncle's
vengeance when he should find it out. She could not even be certain that
he had embarked at all, and she was leaving France, perhaps for ever,
without a farewell word from his lips.

Marie had her own inward perplexities. In the New World for which they
were bound they would be certain to encounter La Pommeraye, and the
secret she had so faithfully kept for him weighed heavily on her mind.
She had several times been on the point of telling Marguerite, but for
some reason or other she shrank from uttering his name. Her feelings
towards him had undergone a change, which had