“I know of none. My uncle felt bitter over the concealment of my fortune, and no doubt the two had exchanged words, but there was no open quarrel. Chevet was rough and headstrong, yet he was not killed in fight, for the knife thrust was from behind.”
“Ay, a coward’s blow. Chevet possessed no papers of value?”
I shook my head.
“If so, no mention was ever made to me. But, Monsieur, you are still wet, and must be cold in this wind. Why do you not build the fire, and dry your clothing?”
“The wind does have an icy feel,” he admitted, “but this is a poor spot. Up yonder in the wood shadow there is more warmth, and besides it affords better outlook for the canoes. Have you strength now to climb the bluff?”
“The path did not appear difficult, and it is dreary enough here. I will try.”
I did not even require his aid, and was at the top nearly as soon as he. It was a pleasant spot, a heavy forest growing almost to the edge, but with green carpet of grass on which one could rest, and gaze off across the wide waste of waters. Yet there was little to attract the eyes except the ceaseless roll of the waves, and the curve of the coast line, against which the breakers still thundered, casting high in air their white spray. It was a wild, desolate scene, a wilderness wherever the eyes turned.
I stood silent, gazing to the southward, but there were no canoes visible, although the storm had ceased, and the waves were no longer high enough to prevent their return. They must have been driven below the distant point, and possibly so injured as to make repairs necessary. When I finally turned away I found that De Artigny had already lighted a fire with flint and steel in a little hollow within the forest. He called to me to join him.
“There is nothing to see,” he said, “and the warmth is welcome. You had no glimpse of the boats?”