Margot looked about her in astonishment, scarcely noticing the other’s words. The devastation of her beloved home was evident, even down on the open beach, and she dared not think what it might be further inland.
“Why, it must have been a cyclone! We were reading about them only yesterday and Uncle Hugh—did you say that you knew—where is he?”
Angelique shook her head.
“Can I tell anythin’, me? Into the storm he went and out of it he will come alive, as you have. If the good Lord wills,” she added reverently.
The girl sprang to the woman’s side, and caught her arm impatiently.
“Tell me, quick. Where is he? where did you last see him?”
“Goin’ into the hoorican’, with wood upon his shoulder. To make a beacon for you. So I guess. But you—tell how you come alive out of all that?” Sweeping her arm over the outlook.
Margot did not stop to answer but darted toward the point of rocks where, if anywhere, she knew her guardian would have tried his signal fire. In a moment she found him.
“Angelique! Angelique! He’s here. Quick—quick—— He’s—— Oh! is he dead, is he dead?”
There was both French and Indian blood in mother Ricord’s veins, a passionate loyalty in her heart, and the suppleness of youth still in her spare frame. With a dash she was at the girl’s side and had thrust her away, to kneel herself and lift her master’s head from its hard pillow of rock.