She kneeled and kissed the stones which marked the spot; and then, without one backward look, she followed La Pommeraye to the hut.
There was little to take with her—the bearskin rug which had been her salvation through the bitter winter, and one or two precious personal trifles which were all that were left of her dead. La Pommeraye's heart was bursting within him as he saw how she had lived, and guessed what she must have endured. In silence they went down to the shore.
"Poor François!" Marguerite said, throwing her arms about the neck of the faithful beast. "Poor François!" and there was a world of meaning in her tone.
Soon they were ready to leave the island; and the wondering sailors, who knew nothing of her story—for Etienne had kept a sacred silence—shuddered as she stepped into the boat.
When the bear saw his mistress deserting him he leaped into the water, and tried to swim after her. Becoming wearied with the effort, however, he was obliged to give it up and swim back to the shore, where he paced up and down the beach with his rolling, awkward gait, his eyes fixed on the retreating boat.
As the ship sailed away, the sailors could see his white form standing in melancholy solitude on the highest point of the cliff. When the vessel was but a speck in the distance, he turned his eyes shoreward, and saw a seal basking in the sun. Stealthily he crept down the cliff and along the shore, his huge claws sank into the neck of the unsuspecting beast, and with savage delight he tore it in pieces.