Night she dreaded. She kept her fire going through the long hours of darkness, but often the glowing embers and tongues of flame would take weird shapes before her eyes. Across the island the wind swept and moaned, and every sound seemed to her the voice of some of the fabled evil spirits of the north. Often she would wake from sleep feeling ghostly presences near her—at her very side. At such times she would creep close to her strange companion, François, and nestle against his shaggy coat. The warmth of his body, and the thick, soft rug which they had made from the skin of the old she-bear, were all that saved her from perishing of the bitter cold of that terrible winter.
It was with unutterable relief that she saw the spring sun return, and felt the warm south wind breathe upon the island hollows. Daily she had watched with hopeless eyes for the sail that never came; but now, as the green shoots began to glisten here and there on the brown sod, she once more built her watchfire high on the cliff, and kept it blazing night and day.
Winter seemed suddenly to have given place to summer. All through April the warm sun streamed down upon the island, and for hours she sat looking out over the blue stretch of scarcely moving water. But fickle spring had a change in store. A chill, icy breath swept down from the north; the pines and birches moaned and sighed once more; and the great green waves crashed foaming on the beach. Her heart sank within her; but ever southward she gazed. An inward voice seemed still to assure her that help was on its way to her, and that her sufferings were nearly at an end.
At last, on the second day of the storm, her eye caught sight, on the broken horizon, of a sail. Steadily she watched it till there could no longer be any doubt of its reality; and then she heaped a huge pile of brushwood upon her fire. They had seen it! Nearer and nearer the vessel was drawing. At last she was to be rescued!
CHAPTER XVII
When Charles arrived at St Malo he found that his messenger, Etienne Brulé, had reached the town in safety, and that De Roberval's horse was being well looked after in Cartier's stables. No pursuit was attempted, and it became evident that Etienne's master would make no effort to bring him back.
In fact, De Roberval, who knew that La Pommeraye was the soul of honour, and that no one would believe him capable of a falsehood, felt that his own wisest course would be silence. He knew that at the least move on his part La Pommeraye would be able to turn all tongues against him; and if the young man had, as he had hinted, any influence with the Duke of Guise, he would undoubtedly call down upon him the heavy hand of the great minister, who had already no love for the ambitious little nobleman.
Charles, too, was kept silent by what he had learned. His old sunny smile had left him, and when he spoke, his once full, mellow voice had a hard, metallic ring. Cartier scarce recognised him, and his questions received but scant answers, which kept him from enquiring further.