It was a sad duty that Bastienne and Marguerite had to perform when they made Marie's poor broken body ready for burial. And while they toiled with loving hands within the hut, Claude worked as best he could to prepare a rude coffin from some of the planks which had remained after the building of their dwelling. Each blow of his hammer went to the hearts of the women, from whom this sad calamity seemed to have taken the last ray of hope.

By the evening of the day which followed her death all was ready, and Claude, with an aching heart, dug a grave in the level, grassy sod, just back of the cliff from which she had fallen. All completed, he returned to the hut, and the three watched silently by their dead till morning broke upon them. Shivering in body and mind, they made ready to carry her remains to their island grave, while the wild sea-birds, which flew screaming in the face of the coming storm, seemed, to their saddened hearts, to wail of human impotence.

Bastienne and Marguerite took the head of the coffin between them, while Claude carried the foot, and the mournful little procession left the hut, and climbed the hill on which the grave had been dug. Slowly their burden was lowered into the shallow earth; and, holding the crucifix above it, they offered up prayers for the rest of the soul which had been so suddenly snatched from among them. It was hard to cast the first spadeful of earth upon the coffin. As each pebble struck the lid, it seemed to them as if Marie must feel the blows. But the bitter duty was at last at an end, the last stone was placed on the rude monument which marked Marie's resting-place, and sadly they turned to leave the spot.

The storm had been steadily increasing, and now the mad waves lashed and rolled like mighty, moving mountains upon the shore. The far-thrown spray fell in torrents about their hut. They were chilled to the bone, and sat shivering all day about the great log fire which burned in their huge, out-of-door fireplace. At last the fury of the gale drove them indoors, and all three sat huddled in their blankets, unable to keep warm.

This was but the prelude to winter. But before that dread season settled down in all its northern fierceness, they were to know a few days of happy respite. Next morning the storm had abated, and a bright sun gleamed across the long, smooth rollers that still swept in upon the shore. There was a strange feeling of summer in the air, and Claude, who remembered his experiences at Quebec, when with Cartier on his second voyage, knew that the "Indian Summer," the time set apart by the red men to make their final preparations for winter, was upon them. For a week the warm sun shone through the mellow haze, and for a week, from morning till night, all three toiled to lay an abundant store of firewood about their hut. It was well that they had this work to occupy their time, for the heap of stones, marking the spot where their dead companion lay, weighed upon their spirits. By the end of the week their little hut was almost hidden from view by the great piles of wood they had gathered, and the ringing blows of Claude's axe ceased.

He had not been wrong; it was but a short respite. Scarcely had they finished their preparations when a raw, penetrating wind, that seemed to separate the flesh from the bone, blew down from the north. The birds had now all gone, except the hardier northern ones. Their songs had ceased; naught was heard but the sound of the restless waves, which kept up an eternal moaning, the soughing of the pines, and the wild shrieks of the sea-birds, whose cries seemed to grow drearier with the approach of winter—modulated, as it were, to the weird north wind.

The three were now forced to remain inside their hut, but the great fire which burned at the door gave them no warmth. There was but one course to follow; a fire must be made within the hut. Claude had long dreaded this inevitable thing, and had put off the evil day while he could. He had been in the huts of the Montagnais, at Tadousac, during the depth of winter, and had seen those shivering savages, half blind with the smoke, crouching about a fire in the centre of their hut, while the smoke, after circling their abode, found its way out through an opening cut in the roof. But as winter drew nearer, he could only imitate the red men; and, with great reluctance, he began to build a fireplace inside their dwelling. The task completed, with saw and axe he cut an aperture above it, and, piling a heap of branches on the stones, set fire to them. The lurid flames for a moment brightened the interior; but soon, half blinded, the women rushed choking into the open air, while the smoke curled upwards, and the warm fire glowed within. There was nothing else to do; they must become accustomed to the discomfort; and, driven in by the cold, they crowded about the blaze. Claude could not but feel how soon such a life must make them even as the red men. Their eyes grew weak and bloodshot; poor old Bastienne became almost blind, and soon could only grope her way about the hut.

Winter in Canada is now a delightful season for those who have the means to resist its fiercer aspects, and can battle with and conquer it. The keen, bracing air, that makes the blood tingle in the veins, and the roses come to the cheek, calls out the latent energy of the Canadian; but even now, for the poor, winter is a source of dread; the savage still sees its approach with terror, and the sick, shut off from the clear air of heaven, pray for its flight. In those early times it was a season to be dreaded by all alike, even along the banks of the broad Hochelaga; but none can conceive, save those who have experienced them, the awful horrors of a winter spent far north on a lonely island in the Atlantic. The cold ceased not, day or night; the wind kept up a continual moaning; the mighty sea swept in with long green rollers, smashed the ice that made about the shores, and heaped it in great, glittering grinding piles upon the beach. The hungry animals prowled about the hut, and fought over the bones which were cast out to them. The hares had changed their coats, and now bounded snow-white across the snow-covered ground. They were dainty eating, and Claude's arquebuse cracked through the woods on the short winter days, as he kept the larder stocked with food—a welcome change after the salt beef which had been set ashore with the women.

Bastienne and Marguerite found some relief from the terrible loneliness which brooded over the island by working, when the light permitted, over their wardrobe and Claude's. They had abundance of clothing for themselves, but Claude had nothing but the garb in which he had swum ashore. The two women contrived, by taking to pieces some of the stoutest of their own outdoor garments, to patch him up a homely suit. Rough, indeed, it was, and Claude felt like the King's jester when he put it on; but no gay gallants of France were there to see him, and he was even able to smile at the sorry figure he cut.

If ever man prayed for winter to end, it was he. He saw that it was killing the two women, and the sharp pains in his own breast warned him that the bitter, piercing winds had done their work, and that unless relief came soon, he must succumb.

Old Bastienne was the greatest sufferer. Age was beginning to tell upon her; and she, who had been as strong as a horse, now became weak as a child. She went stumbling about her daily tasks. To save "her children," as she called the other two, she exposed herself to the cold and storm; and although Claude begged her not to do work beyond her strength, she would, when he was absent, take his axe and break the logs for the fire, or wade through great drifts of snow to the spring which bubbled, sweet, and fresh, and living, in this land of gloom and death.

The fire in the hut was never allowed to burn out; and towards spring the three were hardly recognisable, so black had they become with the smoke and the fierce blaze of the fire, about which they sat during the long, cold evenings, and often through entire days, when five minutes in the open air would have frozen any exposed parts of their bodies.

But the dull monotony of this ice, and snow, and frost could not last for ever. In early March a faint feeling of spring was perceptible in the air; the sea sounded less dread; the birds' cries lost some of their harshness; and before the end of the month they were aroused by a cheery "Pip, pip, pop!" oft and vigorously repeated from the top of their hut. They knew the cry. It was the first robin. Spring was come at last. They went to the door, almost expecting to see the bare ground, and to hear the rustling leaves. But a full foot of snow buried the whole island beneath it; and a winter chill was still in the air, despite the robin's whistle and the warm sun.

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.