That same night, about the hour that Marie breathed her last, Charles de la Pommeraye was riding furiously along the road leading eastward to Paris, where the King was holding a temporary court. He rode all night, and just as the first faint streaks of morning revealed in the distance the grey outline of the towers of Notre Dame, his horse thundered into the sleeping city.

He had had a weary voyage home; what winds there were had been adverse; for nearly a month Cartier's vessels had lain becalmed in mid-ocean; and it was not till the end of August that St Malo, with its towering walls and rugged battlements, was reached.

The three vessels had been joyously welcomed by the Malouins. The merchants who had made large advances to the daring adventurers, in the hope of being recouped from the treasures of the New World, felt a momentary pang at their losses: but private disappointment was forgotten in the public rejoicing at the safe return of their daring and world-famous fellow-townsman, Jacques Cartier.

La Pommeraye found but little pleasure in these festivities. He was possessed by the one idea of seeing Marguerite as soon as possible. Absence had in no way dimmed her image in his mind; fickle and impressionable as he usually was, the best and noblest part of his nature had been awakened by his love for the beautiful girl whom he had met under such unusual circumstances, and of whom he had as yet seen so little. Now that fortune seemed to be favouring him, he cursed every obstacle that kept him an instant longer from her side. At the earliest opportunity he made his escape from the enthusiastic and admiring Malouins; and having disposed of a quantity of rich furs which he had purchased at Tadousac before leaving the St Lawrence, he bought a horse, and set out for Picardy—as the most likely place to hear news of Mdlle. de Roberval, even if he did not find her at the castle.

In order to get away as soon as possible he was obliged to give Cartier the slip. The latter was anxious to proceed at once to court, to report the failure of his attempt to found a colony, and to request permission to return and bring back De Roberval. It would be out of the question, however, to start before the spring, as the season was now so far advanced; and La Pommeraye decided to let Cartier go to court without him, as the winter would give them plenty of time to consider their plans.

He incidentally learned that Roberval had sailed from La Rochelle instead of St Malo, as he had supposed; but the idea that he might have taken his niece with him naturally never entered his head, and no one in St Malo was able to give him any information.

Accordingly, one morning early in September, he mounted his horse and set out on his long ride to the banks of the Somme. It was a long journey; but love let him rest nor day nor night till he had arrived at the end. Nor did he accomplish it without adventure. One morning, about a day's ride from his destination, he met two gay cavaliers, with finely caparisoned horses, speeding on their way to Paris. They saw the dust-stained horse, and dustier rider, and, thinking it would be fine sport to whet their blades on his clumsy sword, bore down upon him.

But they had miscalculated their man; and as the first gallant checked his horse within a few feet of La Pommeraye, his heart grew weak within him as he saw the determined eye and smiling lips of the man he had expected to see turn and flee before him.

"Have at thee, my dainty cock-robin!" said La Pommeraye. "Methinks the smoke from yonder hostel bespeaks a ready breakfast, and I shall do greater justice to the meal after a little exercise. Have at thee!"

The young nobleman grew pale to the lips, but manfully faced the trial he had himself invited. Their horses danced about each other for a few moments, sparks flew from their flashing blades, but the contest was an unequal one. The youth tried hard to reach the breast of his opponent, but his every thrust was met by a determined guard; and when La Pommeraye thought the breathing-time before breakfast had been of sufficient length, he made a few quick passes that the young man's eye could not follow, struck up his antagonist's sword, made a lightning thrust at a broad silver ornament that adorned the gay rider's breast, pushed him from his horse, and laughed a merry laugh as the lad sat up in the dusty road, wondering at his escape. His companion, who had stood by enjoying the contest, heartily joined in the laugh.

"Nobly done!" he exclaimed in admiration, "you handle your sword as if you had been wont to play before King Francis. Henri, thou art not an apt pupil; thou should'st have used thy horse more, and trusted less to thy arms. If Monsieur is not tired with the contest, would he be pleased to measure swords with me? He will find me no mere lad."

"With all the pleasure in life," said Charles, smiling, "But I fear me the bacon at yonder inn will be burnt to a crisp unless I hurry on my way; so draw at once; I have not time to bandy words."

"Have a care, Jules," cried Henri; "he is the Devil."

La Pommeraye caught the name.

"Have I the honour to cross swords with Jules Marchand?" said he. "Your fame is not unknown to me; and were it not for the fact that I am in haste to be at my journey's end, I would fain prolong the fight; as it is, it must be short and sharp."

Like a flash his weapon shot out; like a flash the other met it. But though the swordsman was La Pommeraye's equal in skill, he lacked brawn; and, they had scarce played for a minute's space when Jules Marchand's sword was wrenched from his hand, and he was left sitting, black with wrath, upon his charger, which whinnied as if in recognition of his master's mishap.

"Pardon, gentlemen," said Charles, smiling, "I must not dally longer by the way. Were you not going in the opposite direction, I would invite you to breakfast with me. But beware, hereafter, how you attack lone travellers; were it not that France, now that Spain is once more in arms against her, needs every man who is able to bear a sword, I should have left one of you, at least, by the roadside."

So saying, he waved the two gallants a laughing adieu, and rode away.

"The Devil, or La Pommeraye," said Jules.

"Neither! Too merry for the Devil," answered Henri, "and La Pommeraye, we heard, was killed in Paris."

"Nay," replied Jules, "that report was false. But it is true that he is no longer in France. Guillaume Leblanc saw him on board one of Cartier's ships, making for the New World. I was glad of the tidings, I have to confess. His skill and strength made me dread meeting him; and his departure left me the first swordsman in France; for despite De Roberval's reputation, he was of an old school, and easy to defeat. But now it seems I am but a poor second. But let us to Paris, and find out who this dashing cavalier may be."

La Pommeraye continued his journey, and loitered but little on the way till Picardy was reached. A few of Roberval's retainers were about his castle; and from them he learned that the nobleman had not only gone to the New World himself, but had taken his niece with him.

The news fell on him like a thunderbolt. Thousands of miles of stormy sea lay between him and the face that haunted his dreams. As he thought how near he had been to her in the harbour of St John, his heart bounded madly within him, and his eyeballs beat upon his brain.

But he was not long in planning a course of action. He would hasten to court, and find means of returning to the New World at once. Destruction only could await the colonists, and he shuddered as he thought of the tenderly-nurtured girls exposed to the fierce storms and bitter cold of a Canadian winter.

So his good horse was saddled once more, and the measured beat of its hoofs became swifter and yet swifter as Paris was neared.

Once in the city, he lost no time in presenting a request for an audience with the King, and the announcement of his name, and the nature of his errand, readily gained him admission to Francis' presence.

He found that Cartier had been before him by a few days, and had urged the necessity of recalling Roberval, and the hopelessness of any attempts to colonise the New World. The King had been greatly disappointed by the downfall of all the hopes and brilliant prophecies with which the expedition had started. He had rewarded Cartier's bravery and enterprise with the promise of a patent of nobility, but seemed reluctant to encourage the idea of withdrawing the second detachment of colonists. He was inclined to suspect that jealousy of De Roberval, and disappointment at his own failure, had something to do with Cartier's anxiety to break up a scheme on which his heart had been set a year before. La Pommeraye saw his hopes receding into the distance; his heart sank within him.

"But what thinks the Duke of Guise?" said the King, suddenly, turning to that veteran nobleman, who was now his chief adviser, occupying the place that Anne de Montmorenci had so long filled.

The Duke had been standing silently by during the interview, regarding La Pommeraye with a meditative air.

"Methinks, sire," he answered, "that there is much wisdom in what the young man urges. Already we have cast too much good treasure away in these vain enterprises; and now that Spain needs our utmost attention, we can spare neither men nor money for schemes of foreign colonisation."

"You hear, M. La Pommeraye," said Francis, "what the Duke says; but we had hoped to fill our coffers with the riches of Canada."

"May it please your Majesty," said Charles, "there are no riches there, save a few furs and fish. These might serve to give a St Malo or Rochelle merchant enough wealth to retire on, and provide for his daughters, but would not go very far towards fitting out a battalion. I had had great hopes of the enterprise, but the experiences of last winter have taught me that nothing is to be gained by our struggles to colonise the barren North. The noble fellows who are wasting their lives in that sterile land, with only murderers and robbers as companions, would be far better in France, protecting her shores from foreign invasion."

"There is truth in what you say," answered the King, after a moment's pause. "We are much in need of De Roberval. The Picards worship the 'Little King of Vimeu,' and if he does not return, we fear we shall get but scant funds and few troops from the sturdy men of his province. But what is it that you would have?"

"A ship, Sire," promptly replied La Pommeraye, "manned and provisioned for a voyage to Canada, and permission to Cartier to return in it, and recall Roberval to France."

"Parbleu!" said the King, "a modest request! Well, we will consider the matter, and see what course it will be best to take."

"But, Sire," said Charles, his distress and anxiety getting the better of his diplomacy, "the winter draws near, and unless we start at once we shall not be able to reach Charlesbourg Royal till spring."

As he finished speaking, the Duke of Guise, who had been conversing aside with some one near him during the last few sentences, turned to the King.

"May it please you, Sire," said he, "this mad nephew of mine is desirous of a favour at your hands. It seems he owes his life to this gallant gentleman, and he prays me to entreat you to grant him whatever he requests."

As he spoke, Charles recognised in the gay young cavalier, who now came forward, his discomfited antagonist of the adventure on the road to Picardy.

"We have met before," said he, bowing to La Pommeraye. "Sire, this is none other than the redoubtable swordsman whose deeds have been buzzed through the court for a week—to the lasting chagrin of Jules Marchand. Uncle, if you love me, you owe him a debt of gratitude. That I am not at this moment in heaven, praying for your soul, is due solely to his generosity."

"Nay," interrupted La Pommeraye, "my generosity saved you not; it was the silver star you wore on your breast. I had intended to run you through; but that sparkling bauble caught my eye, and I could not resist the novel experience of tilting at you with my rapier."

A hearty laugh, in which the King joined, rang out from those who stood near, for all knew of the adventure which the mirth-loving Henri of Guise had related with due embellishment.

"We have not had so good a joke since we came to Paris," said Francis, "as that encounter has furnished us. Your doughty deeds deserve a reward. The ship is yours, and Cartier has our permission to go; but we shall not compel him to leave France unless he wishes. And as for manning the vessel, you will have to find some other means, for every son is needed to protect France from our Spanish foes."

So it came about, that at the end of September La Pommeraye found himself once more crossing the Sillon, with power to purchase a ship and start at once to bid Roberval return to France. His first proceeding was to seek out Cartier, and inform him of his successful mission.

He found, however, that the experienced and wary seaman was not to be persuaded into undertaking the voyage before the spring. He displayed small warmth over the concessions of the King; and declared that, owing to the unforeseen delays which had retarded them on the voyage home, it was now so late that it would be madness to attempt to cross the ocean before the winter set in.

"In any case," he said, "De Roberval cannot do otherwise than we have done. This winter will prove to them that their efforts are in vain; they will be forced to return in the spring."

"But," said La Pommeraye, "think of the noble women with them! The winter will kill them!"

"I did not know they were with Roberval," said Cartier. "I supposed he would have had the good sense to leave them behind."

"I have been in Picardy and in Paris," returned Charles, "and I have learned beyond a doubt that they went with him. We must reach them at once, or the scurvy, cold, or Indians will surely destroy them."

"We shall have to trust to Providence till spring, at all events," replied Cartier. "We could not reach the Gulf of St Lawrence before the ice makes. It would be October before we should get under way, and you remember the Hochelaga was bridged just one month later last year. No vessel need hope to make the arduous journey across the Atlantic in less than six weeks."

La Pommeraye, in his impulsiveness, had not thought of this; and as the truth of the sailor's words flashed upon him, he felt that his friends were doomed.

He accepted the inevitable with what stoicism he could, and unable to stay in St Malo, he returned to Paris to fill up his time as best he might until spring arrived. But the gay life about the court had no fascination for him. Dice and the wine-cup failed to attract him, and women marvelled at the handsome young Hercules who displayed such indifference to all their charms. Excitement of a manlier sort he must have; and although there were no battles of any great importance to be fought, the frontier engagements gave abundant opportunity for such swords as his. His old renown soon returned to him; and tales of his wondrous daring found their way to Fontainebleau, to be marvellously enlarged on by his staunch friend and admirer, Henri of Guise.

But he never swerved from his purpose, and as soon as the March sun began to warm the soil, he turned his horse's head towards St Malo.

On his arrival there, he found to his surprise that Cartier was no more enthusiastic over the expedition than he had been in the autumn. That insatiable wanderer seemed at last to have had enough of adventures by sea and land. He had received his patent of nobility from the King, and since the sufferings and discouragements of his last voyage, the prospect of comfort and honours in France seemed to hold more inducements for him than the idea of once more facing the dangers of the deep. His limbs were not so sturdy as of old, his eye had lost something of its keenness, and the hardships and anxieties of the last winter had left their mark upon him. He had money enough to support him to the end of his days, and he had purchased the seignorial mansion of Limoilou—that ancient stone house which is still pointed out with pride by the Malouins as the residence of their great sailor. When Charles arrived, he was just about to instal himself and his family in his new abode.

He was willing to sell him his good ship, L'Emerillon, and to do all in his power to further the success of his efforts, but he was so evidently reluctant to tear himself away once more from the peaceful home, whose comfort he was only beginning to appreciate, that Charles resolved not to keep him to the letter of his promise, but to undertake the voyage alone. A capable sailing-master, Gaspard Girouard, was found, L'Emerillon was soon fitted out; and as she was ostensibly merely going to Canada to bring back a load of furs, more hardy seamen than were necessary flocked to join her on her voyage.

The April breezes wafted them across the Atlantic without mishap. They intended to take the southern passage, but a savage spring gale blew them far out of their course, and they steered away for the Straits of Belle Isle. The sailors saw, as they skirted the Newfoundland coast, a distant rocky island on the horizon. As Charles gazed upon it he noticed smoke curling upwards.

"What strange places," he said, turning to Girouard, "these naked savages select to abide in! I have wandered much in the wilds of Canada, but never came on a place that seemed too desolate for them."

"No savages make those fires," said an old sailor who was standing by. "Yonder is the smoke of hell. That is the Isle of Demons."

La Pommeraye laughed at the absurd superstition, and kept his eye fixed on the distant point of land with the column of smoke, which seemed to grow larger with each moment. But darkness soon fell upon the ocean, and the dim outline of the island at last faded from his view.

Had he but known! That smoke was a signal from the weary watchers on the island, who, on one of the unhappiest and saddest days of their desolate lives, saw in that distant sail hopes of release from their cruel prison. Eagerly they heaped up a huge fire to attract the passing craft, little thinking that it was in search of them that she was speeding on her white-winged way.

In a few days L'Emerillon had passed from the Bay of St Lawrence into the river of Hochelaga. A favouring wind bore her on past the deep, black mouth of the Saguenay, and soon the Isle of Bacchus was spread before the sailors' weary eyes, green, beautiful, and fresh, with the high Falls of Montmorenci leaping wildly down on the opposite shore. On to Charlesbourg Royal they sailed; and a horrible dread seized La Pommeraye as he approached the place. A dead silence reigned on the steep banks of the broad river. A substantial structure now stood where Cartier had had his rude fort, and its two towers loomed up before the eyes of the Frenchmen. Other buildings could be seen here and there, but no living soul appeared in sight; and in the anchorage, where he had looked for the ships of the colonists, not even a canoe could be seen. Could they have grown tired of the life here, and started further up the stream—to Hochelaga, perhaps? But no time was to be lost. When the silent shore was within a stone's throw the anchor was run out, and the vessel rested from her long journey. A boat was lowered, and La Pommeraye went on shore and explored the castle-like structure that crowned the heights, the empty halls and chambers, the gaping shelves and bins in the storehouses, the deep and vacant cellars, the great ovens, and the two silent watermills, all told him of the hopes which had filled the heart of De Roberval. Everything had been carefully removed from the place, and there were evident traces of Indians; but as there were no marks of a struggle, and no dead to be seen, Charles concluded that they had merely visited the place to pick up whatever the whites had chanced to leave behind.

A rude plot of ground, with several new-made graves, told him that King Death had visited the young colony, and the high gallows in the square hinted that the stern-willed nobleman had helped the cold and scurvy to lessen the population.

Charles would not return without making sure that his friends had left the New World, and so, after a fruitless search for natives, who seemed to have betaken themselves to better hunting-grounds, he boarded his ship, weighed anchor, and rested not till he was within the shadow of Mont Royal. Here he met a chieftain, Agona by name, whom he had formerly known, and who had taken the place of old Donnacona. From him he learned of De Roberval's sufferings and failure. He could learn nothing definite about Claude or Marguerite, but as there had been other noblemen in the colony, he did not so much wonder at that. But there was no doubt that they had all departed. His journey had been in vain; and with a heavy heart he set about retracing once more all those weary miles which lay between him and the woman he loved.