ay off, like cannon when the Americans come to the
island. My head swims. I cross myself and know why something pull,
pull, to make me bring the traino to the beach, and I am oblige to that
skeleton who slide down hill to warn me.

When we have seen Mackinac, we walk to the other side and look south and
southeast towards Cheboygan.. All is the same. The ice is moving out of
the strait.

"We are strand on this island!" says Mamselle Rosalin. "Oh, what shall
we do?"

I tell her it is better to be prisoners on Bound Island than on a cake
of ice in the strait, for I have tried the cake of ice and know.

"We will camp and build a fire in the cove opposite Mackinac," I say.
"Maman and the children will see the light and feel sure we are safe."

"I have done wrong," says she. "If you lose your life on this journey,
it is my fault."

Oh God, no! I tell her. She is not to blame for anything, and there is
no danger. I have float many a time when the strait breaks up, and not
save my hide so dry as it is now. We only have to stay on Round Island
till we can get off.

"And how long will that be?" she ask.

I shrug my shoulders. There is no telling. Sometimes the strait clears
very soon, sometimes not. Maybe two, three days.

Rosalin sit down on a stone.

I tell her we can make camp, and show signals to Mackinac, and when the
ice permit, a boat will be sent.

She is crying, and I say her lady will be well. No use to go to
Cheboygan anyhow, for it is a week since her lady sent for her. But
she cry on, and I think she wish I leave her alone, so I say I will get
wood. And I unharness the dogs, and run along the beach to cover that
skeleton before dark. I look and cannot find him at all. Then I go up to
the graveyard and look down. There is no skeleton anywhere. I have seen
his skull and his ribs and his arms and legs, all sliding down hill. But
he is gone!

The dusk close in upon the islands, and I not know what to think--cross
myself, two, three times; and wish we had land on Boblo instead of Round
Island, though there are wild beasts on both.

But there is no time to be scare at skeletons that slide down and
disappear, for Mamselle Rosalin must have her camp and her place to
sleep. Every man use to the bateaux have always his tinder-box, his
knife, his tobacco, but I have more than that; I have leave Mackinac so
quick I forget to take out the storekeeper's bacon that line the bottom
of the sledge, and Mamselle Eosali