, fell upon the shadows of the
water, and seemed to bound from crest to white-capped crest, till at
last they split and burst asunder like some ominous missiles from
engines of wrath and destruction.

And now, suddenly, all grew still again. The sky took on a lighter,
livid tone, one of pure venom. There came a whisper, a murmur, a rush as
of mighty waters, a sighing as of an army of the condemned, a shrieking
as of legions of the lost, a roaring as of all the soul-felt tortures of
a world. From the forest rose a continuous rending crash. The whiplash
of the tempest cracked the tree trunks as a child beheads a row of
daisies. Piled up, falling, riven asunder, torn out by the wind, the
giant trees joined the toys which the cynic storm gathered in its hands
and bore along until such time as it should please to crush and drop
them.

There passed out over the black sea of Michiganon a vast black wraith; a
thing horrible, tremendous, titanic in organic power. It howled,
execrated, menaced; missed its aim, and passed. The little swaying house
still stood! Under the sheltered log some tiny sparks of fire still
burned, omen of the unquenchable hearthstones which the land was yet to
know!

"Holy God! what was it? What was that which passed?" cried Jean
Breboeuf, crawling out from beneath his shelter. "Saint Mary defend us
all this night! 'Twas the great Canoe of the Damned, running _au large_
across the sky! Mary, Mother of God, hear my vow! Prom this time Jean
Breboeuf shall lead a better life!"

The storm, baffled, passed on. The rain, unsatisfied, sullenly ceased in
its attack. The waves, hopeless but still vindictive, began to call back
their legions from the narrow shore. The lightnings, unsated in their
wrath, flared and flickered on and out across the eastward sea. With
wild laughter and shrieks and imprecations, the spirit of the tempest
wailed on its furious way. The red West had raised its hand to smite,
but it had not smitten sure.

In the silence of the night, in the hush following the uproar of the
storm, there came a little wailing cry; so faint, so feeble, yet so
mighty, so conquering, this sign of the coming generation, the voice of
the new-born babe. At this little human voice, born of sorrow and sin,
born to suffering and to knowledge, born to life in all its wonders and
to death in all its mystery--the elements perchance relented and averted
their fury. Not yet was there to be punished sin, or wrong, or