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 a