er shoulder and with another frightened scream the
woman turned to confront her master.

"Is the child away?"

"Yes, yes. I know not where."

"Since when?"

"It seems but an hour, maybe two, three, and she was here, laughing,
singing, all as ever. Though it was before the midday, and she went
in her canoe, still singing."

"Which way?"

She pointed due east, but now into a gloom that was impenetrable. On
the instant, the lapping wavelets became breakers, the wind rose to a
deafening shriek, throwing Angelique to the ground and causing even
the strong man to reel before it. As soon as he could right himself he
lifted her in his arms and staggered up the slope. Rather, he was
almost blown up it and through the open door into the cabin, about
which its furnishings were flying wildly. Here the woman recovered
herself and lent her aid in closing the door against the tempest, a
task that, for a time, seemed impossible. Her next thought was for her
dinner-pot, now swaying in the fireplace, up which the draught was
roaring furiously. Once the precious stew was in a sheltered corner,
her courage failed again and she sank down beside it, moaning and
wringing her hands.

"It is the end of the world!"

"Angelique!"

Her wails ceased. That was a tone of voice she had never disobeyed in
all her fifteen years of service.

"Yes, Master Hugh."

"Spread some blankets. Brew some herb tea. Get out a change of dry
clothing. Make everything ready against I bring Margot in."

She watched him hurrying about securing all the windows, piling wood
on the coals, straightening the disordered furniture, fastening a
bundle of kindlings to his own shoulders, putting matches in the
pocket of his closely buttoned coat, and caught something of his
spirit. After all, it was a relief to be doing something, even though
the roar of the tempest and the incessant flashes of lightning turned
her sick with fear. But it was all too short a task; and when, at
last, her master climbed outward through a sheltered rear window,
closing it behind him, her temporary courage sank again and finally.

"The broken glass! the broken glass! Yet who would dream it is my
darling's bright young life must pay for that and not mine, the old
and careworn? Ouch! the blast! That bolt struck--and near! Ah! me! Ah!
me!"

Meroude rubbed pleadingly against her arm and, glad of any living
companionship, she put out her hand to touch him; but drew it back in
dread, for