As the vessel sailed away from the Isle of Demons, La Pommeraye had but one thought—to get back to France at once and confront De Roberval. But before he had sailed many miles he remembered that he had a duty to perform to the merchants of St Malo who had fitted out his little ship. The course was changed, the vessel's bow turned westward, and after a few days' sail he cast anchor in the black waters at the mouth of the great gorge of the Saguenay. He was welcomed by the Indians, whose huts clustered about the high cliffs and along the sandy stretches of that rugged spot. Runners were sent out to the surrounding Indian villages, and in a few days his vessel was almost sunk to the decks with a rich cargo of furs.
All this time Marguerite kept out of sight, only coming on deck in the evenings when it was dark, and she could be alone. She shunned companionship, and scarcely spoke, even to La Pommeraye. A deep and settled melancholy brooded over her soul. When her little island sank from sight on the horizon, it seemed to her that all she loved on earth was lost to her for ever. Night and day she saw before her eyes that lonely grave on the hillside where her heart lay buried; and at times the longing to return to it grew too strong for her, and she was tempted to beg La Pommeraye to take her back. But the kindly French faces about her, the French voices which sounded like music in her ears, the generous, thoughtful consideration of Claude's old comrade, restored her to her right mind. Quiet, good food, comparative comfort, and sleep wrought a marvellous change in her, and by the time they were on their way towards France, she was able to talk a little, and to give Charles an outline of her story.
Six weeks after this the merchants of St Malo saw a deeply-laden craft sweeping into the harbour under a cloud of canvas. She was no fisherman; and many who had money invested in sea ventures flocked to the walls. Among the rest stood the keen-sighted Cartier, who never heard of the approach of a vessel from foreign shores but he thought of La Pommeraye. Scarcely had he caught sight of the ship when he exclaimed:
"It is the Marie, and loaded to the decks!" And to himself he added: "Back so soon? His work must be finished; and now, God have mercy on De Roberval!"
When the ship cast anchor, Cartier was one of the first to reach her, and, hurrying on board, he warmly embraced his friend. Then he placed him at arm's length, and, with his hand upon his shoulder, eagerly scanned his countenance, as if to learn from it what tidings he had brought. La Pommeraye did not speak, but his face told Cartier that all was not well.
"You have been at the Isle of Demons?" he asked at last.
"I have."
"And found there?—De Pontbriand—is he still alive?"
Charles controlled himself with an effort to answer:
"Think you, if Claude de Pontbriand were on board, he would stay below while Jacques Cartier boarded his vessel?"