t 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 f