“You’re certain ’tis not Philippeau?” Ronald questioned.
The Indian nodded. “Been here,” he repeated. “Philippeau——” He shook his head. “Maybe there is such an island, maybe not. I never saw it, never knew Indian who had seen it.”
“But white men have seen it,” said Jean. “I never heard of one who had landed on it, but some have caught sight of it, on clear days, far across the water. They have put it on their maps, but always east of Royale, or Minong as you call it. No, we cannot be on Philippeau, but perhaps we can get a glimpse of it.”
Turning, the French boy gazed intently in the other direction, the one in which they had come. He could see the narrow ribbon of the strait or harbor they had crossed, wooded islands beyond it, and the open lake stretching to the horizon, but no faintest shadow of distant land in that direction. A look of disappointment crossed his face. It was not so much Philippeau for which he was seeking as the mysterious, the much desired Island of Yellow Sands.
“Etienne,” he said soberly, “do you really believe there is any Island of Yellow Sands? Do you suppose we shall ever find it?”
“My grandfather saw it,” the Ojibwa replied. “I have told you the story. Whether we shall reach it I know not. The manitos of the lake seem unfriendly to us. Give up the search, little brother, at least until the snows have come and gone once more. Be warned in time.”
“We will not give it up,” cried Ronald hotly. “To be turning back, while we still have time to find and secure the gold before winter comes, would be foolish as well as craven. But ’tis of no use to seek it near here. We’re too far south and west, according to Nangotook’s own story. We must travel on to the north end of this island first. From there we may get a glimpse of the place we seek. If not, we can at least strike north and east for a day or even a half day’s journey. If then we come not within sight of the isle, it will be time enough to give up the search. What say you, Jean?”
“I am as loath to give it up as you,” Jean replied, “and,” he added more cheerfully, “I think your plan a good one. As you say, we can at least postpone talk of turning back until we have made one more attempt. Let us return to our camp and be in readiness to go on. The strait we crossed is somewhat sheltered. We can go on along it, perhaps to-*night, to-morrow at the latest.”
The Indian said nothing. Jean glanced at his impassive face, then thinking to change the subject, asked, “What came you to the island for, Etienne? You say you have visited it before.”
“For copper, little brother,” the Ojibwa answered. “On the northern side of this island, copper stones can be picked up from the shores and dug out of the hillsides, sometimes in pieces as large as my hand,” holding out his closed fist, “not in such little bits as this,” and he pointed with his toe to the rock at his feet.