sions. The Mosaic law was set up in Beaver Island, even to the
stoning of rebellious children.

The smoke of a sacrificed people was now reeking on Beaver. This
singular man's French ancestry--for he was descended from Henri de
L'Estrange, who came to the New World with the Duke of York--doubtless
gave him the passion for picturesqueness and the spiritual grasp on
his isolated kingdom which keeps him still a notable and unforgotten
figure.

"It makes me feel bad to see so much destruction," the young man said to
his wife; "though I offered to go with Billy Wentworth to shoot Strang
if nobody else was willing. I knew I was marked, and sooner or later I
would disappear if he continued to govern this island. But with all
his faults he was a man. He could fight; and whip. He'd have sunk every
steamer in the harbor to-day."

"It's heavy on my heart, Ludlow--it's dreadful! Neighbors and friends
that we shall never see again!"

The young man caught his wife by the arm. They both heard the swift beat
of footsteps flying down the peninsula. Cecilia drew in her breath and
crowded against her husband. A figure came into view and identified
itself, leaping in bisected draperies across an open space to the
light-house door.

"Why, Rosanne!" exclaimed the keeper's wife. She continued to say "Why,
Rosanne! Why, Rosanne Baker!" after she had herself run into the house
and lighted a candle.

She set the candle on the chimney. It showed her rock-built domicile,
plain but dignified, like the hollow of a cavern, with blue china on
the cupboard shelves and a spinning-wheel standing by the north wall. A
corner staircase led to the second story of the tower, and on its lowest
step the fugitive dropped down, weeping and panting. She was peculiarly
dressed in the calico bloomers which the King of Beaver had latterly
decreed for the women of his kingdom. Her trim legs and little feet,
cased in strong shoes, appeared below the baggy trousers. The upper part
of her person, her almond eyes, round curves and features were full
of Oriental suggestions. Some sweet inmate of a harem might so have
materialized, bruising her softness against the hard stair.

"Why, Rosanne Baker!" her hostess reiterated.

Cecilia did not wear bloomers. She stood erect in petticoats. "I thought
you went on one of the boats!"

"I didn't," sobbed Rosanne. "When they were crowding us on I slipped
among the lumber piles and hid. I've been hid all day, lying flat