The robin was an old friend. He had been the last bird to leave in the autumn, and, when he saw them, he saucily flew to his accustomed feeding-place, expecting his morning meal. Nor was he disappointed. Day by day they delighted his heart with finely-crushed crumbs of the hard biscuit De Roberval had put on shore with them. Though he came early, spring seemed still far away. No other birds returned for several weeks, not even the mate of this red-breasted fore-runner of summer. Possibly she had been lost on the stormy trip from the mainland; or possibly he had merely been sent ahead as a sentinel to spy out the land, and see if it were fit for its summer residents.
April crept slowly by, and towards the end a few plaintive-voiced sparrows added their songs to the vigorous, self-confident notes of the robin. Soon the whole island one morning burst into song, and spring was indeed with them. The snow had vanished, save in the hollows and in the shaded spots, and the grass here and there began to take on the fresh, living green which rejoiced their hearts.
But spring was to bring small joy to them. Faithful old Bastienne grew weaker day by day. Claude and Marguerite were filled with pity as they saw her sitting, helpless and dejected, on the rude seat near the outdoor fireplace. She could scarcely walk, and the hollow, choking cough, which sounded like a death-knell in their ears, told them she had not long to live. They dreaded seeing her pine and die before their eyes, while they were powerless to help her.
But the gods were kinder to them all than they had anticipated. Coming back one day early in May from a long ramble through the woods, where they had gathered a profusion of wild flowers, Claude and Marguerite found the old servant stretched lifeless on the slope before the door of the hut. She had fallen forward on her face from her accustomed seat near the fire, and was quite dead. There were no marks of suffering upon her features; her end had seemingly been as peaceful as it was sudden, and her spirit had, doubtless, wandered back to the sunny slopes of the Somme, and the broad fields and blooming orchards of her beloved Picardy.
They laid her body to rest beside Marie's, and the faithful old peasant and the daughter of a noble slept side by side—equal in death.
The task completed, the two who were left wandered hand in hand in silence about their lonely island, while on every side the birds fluted joyously, and all Nature rejoiced in the beauty of the spring—unheeding the presence of death.
As Claude gazed longingly over the wide, green waters, far off he noticed a tiny speck, which, at first, seemed like the top of an iceberg. Nearer it came, till it grew definite, and he saw, clearly outlined against the sky, a vessel under full sail, steering towards the straits of Belle Isle. It was the first ship they had seen, and they rushed to their fire, and heaped it high with loads of dry boughs until the flames shot into the air, and the smoke curled upwards in a mighty column, and then spread over the ocean. They hoped to see the vessel change her course and bear down upon their island. But their hopes were in vain. She kept steadily on her way, and before night fell she had vanished from their sight on the horizon.
On the high poop of the ship La Pommeraye paced with rapid, nervous step. Land was in sight at last; he would soon be in the St Lawrence, and with Marguerite. So he thought; while they prayed that the unknown vessel might come a little nearer so that they might hail it.
As the ship passed away, Claude, in his despair, called on God to curse the tyrant who had brought this suffering upon them; and, while he prayed far away in Charlesbourg Royal, Roberval, on the eve of departure, had six of his men stripped to the waist, lined up in the square, and flogged till the blood streamed down their backs. The next morning his ships were bearing away for the Old World, his hopes broken, and his heart within him more savage than ever.