She sat on the cliff, unheeding the storm which beat about her head and scattered the embers of her fire. The anguish of her position forced itself upon her. To be left on the island meant a slow and torturing death; and yet, had she been rescued, she must have left behind her all that she had loved. She prayed that she might die at once.
But Heaven had ordered otherwise. Life and hope were to return to her; her imprisonment was nearly over.
La Pommeraye's vessel drove before the gale until the high cliffs of St John's harbour loomed up before her. They were a welcome sight, for the little craft had been so strained by the struggle against the storm, that she had sprung a leak, and it was with difficulty that the sailors kept the water in the hold from gaining on them. But within the harbour the waters were comparatively calm; and when the anchor was cast, a careful examination showed that the leak was immediately above the water-line, and could be easily remedied. All through the night the wind howled through the rigging; and all through the night La Pommeraye, unable to rest, paced the deck like a caged tiger. On the following morning the storm still raged, and it was not till the next day that they were able to make for the open sea. The wind had now shifted to the south, and a gentle breeze was rippling the surface of the giant rollers over which they plunged on their northward way.
Four days had elapsed since Marguerite had seen the vessel disappear; and four terrible days she had spent, roaming like one demented over her island prison. All day she heard the voices of the demons calling from every cliff and cave, and at night they beat upon the walls of her cabin, and seemed to keep up a fierce, demoniacal laughter over the graves on the hillside. Had it not been for François, she would have rushed into the great green waves which rolled up on the shore, bent on her own destruction; but the presence of the faithful creature, who followed her about from cliff to cliff, as she looked east and west, north and south, over the waste of waters; who sat by with pathetic wonder as she lay stretched at length upon her loved ones' graves; who guarded her through the darkness while the demons were howling above her abode—saved her from herself. She longed for death; she would have shrunk from the thought of leaving the island where Claude lay, but the principle of life which would not die demanded that she should save herself if it were possible. And while she prayed for death to come, she strained her eyes in the hope of seeing some approaching sail.
At last the storm abated. The waves still climbed the island reaches, but the warm breeze told her that the time of danger was past. A hope which would not be crushed out whispered to her that the vessel she had seen had been on its way to the island, and as the storm went down, the same wild hope suggested to her that it would come back. Till darkness fell she gazed, and when day broke she stood on the "lookout," scanning the far horizon. At last she was rewarded. A dim, white speck stood out against the clear sky. Swiftly it approached. Gradually the white sails showed distinct, then the black hull appeared, and there, before her, lay a vessel of her own land—a vessel from La Belle France. She moved not, nor spoke, and by her side sat François on his haunches, as motionless as herself. A cannon boomed from the ship, and its echoes awoke a myriad birds, which flew screaming across the waves, or plunged into the ocean. It was a strange sound to Marguerite—a voice from her old home, calling her back to life.
With joy La Pommeraye had sighted once more the rocky point of land upon the horizon. But a keen pang of disappointment seized him when he looked in vain for the signal which had told him there was yet life on the island. Could they have perished in the storm? Could his approach, when they were on the verge of the grave, have served only to tantalise them, and make the end the harder? Such thoughts beat in his brain, as he vainly watched for any sign of life.
At last Etienne touched his arm.
"Look, Monsieur, they live! There stand two figures on yonder cliff."
As he spoke, all eyes turned towards the projecting spur, and as the keen-visioned sailors caught sight of Marguerite and her uncouth companion, they fell on their knees and crossed themselves in holy awe. La Pommeraye quickly had the sails run down and the anchor dropped; and before Marguerite could leave her station, the gun boomed forth its welcome.
Down to the beach she went to meet the approaching boat, and even La Pommeraye was awed when he saw her figure coming towards him.