he 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, i