As the vessel sailed away from the Isle of Demons, La Pommeraye had but one thought—to get back to France at once and confront De Roberval. But before he had sailed many miles he remembered that he had a duty to perform to the merchants of St Malo who had fitted out his little ship. The course was changed, the vessel's bow turned westward, and after a few days' sail he cast anchor in the black waters at the mouth of the great gorge of the Saguenay. He was welcomed by the Indians, whose huts clustered about the high cliffs and along the sandy stretches of that rugged spot. Runners were sent out to the surrounding Indian villages, and in a few days his vessel was almost sunk to the decks with a rich cargo of furs.

All this time Marguerite kept out of sight, only coming on deck in the evenings when it was dark, and she could be alone. She shunned companionship, and scarcely spoke, even to La Pommeraye. A deep and settled melancholy brooded over her soul. When her little island sank from sight on the horizon, it seemed to her that all she loved on earth was lost to her for ever. Night and day she saw before her eyes that lonely grave on the hillside where her heart lay buried; and at times the longing to return to it grew too strong for her, and she was tempted to beg La Pommeraye to take her back. But the kindly French faces about her, the French voices which sounded like music in her ears, the generous, thoughtful consideration of Claude's old comrade, restored her to her right mind. Quiet, good food, comparative comfort, and sleep wrought a marvellous change in her, and by the time they were on their way towards France, she was able to talk a little, and to give Charles an outline of her story.

Six weeks after this the merchants of St Malo saw a deeply-laden craft sweeping into the harbour under a cloud of canvas. She was no fisherman; and many who had money invested in sea ventures flocked to the walls. Among the rest stood the keen-sighted Cartier, who never heard of the approach of a vessel from foreign shores but he thought of La Pommeraye. Scarcely had he caught sight of the ship when he exclaimed:

"It is the Marie, and loaded to the decks!" And to himself he added: "Back so soon? His work must be finished; and now, God have mercy on De Roberval!"

When the ship cast anchor, Cartier was one of the first to reach her, and, hurrying on board, he warmly embraced his friend. Then he placed him at arm's length, and, with his hand upon his shoulder, eagerly scanned his countenance, as if to learn from it what tidings he had brought. La Pommeraye did not speak, but his face told Cartier that all was not well.

"You have been at the Isle of Demons?" he asked at last.

"I have."

"And found there?—De Pontbriand—is he still alive?"

Charles controlled himself with an effort to answer:

"Think you, if Claude de Pontbriand were on board, he would stay below while Jacques Cartier boarded his vessel?"

"He is dead?"

"Dead!"

"And Mdlle. de Roberval?"

"She alone, of all the party, is left alive. She lived on in that bleak spot in the midst of the Atlantic, while her nurse and her companion perished, and at last, with her own hands, she buried Claude. One other death must follow to complete the tragedy."

Cartier wrung his friend's hand in silence. He was no longer young; but something of the fierce rage which burned in La Pommeraye's breast burst into flame in his own, as he looked at the worn and saddened face of the once buoyant young adventurer. "God help De Roberval!" he once more thought, "and God speed the arm that strikes the blow!"

"But come below," said Charles, after a few moments' oppressive silence, "and see Mdlle. de Roberval for yourself. I wish no one but you to know for the present that she has returned to France. I will leave you with her, and attend to these Malouins, who have, no doubt, come to see what return I can give them for the sous they invested in the Marie."

Cartier could not restrain a start of dismay when he was ushered into the little cabin, where Marguerite sat awaiting him. He had last seen her, little more than four years before, a beautiful girl, in the full, radiant charm of budding womanhood. She stood before him now, worn and aged, with white hair and the face of a woman of fifty instead of a girl of twenty-six. But her figure was as upright as ever, and her carriage as queenly; her dark eyes had lost none of their fire—though their depths held the secret of her life's tragedy—and her voice, when she spoke, had gained in fulness and richness what it had lost in girlish brightness and gaiety.

Cartier controlled himself, and allowed no sign of pity or sympathy to appear in his face or voice.

"Mademoiselle," he said simply, "I welcome you back to France. If you will deign to accept my hospitality, my house and all that I have are at your service for as long as you will make use of them."

Marguerite thanked him with her old, quiet dignity. She never lost her self-control through all the trying scenes of her return to the land she had left under such different auspices—so little dreaming what her home-coming would be. When Charles had succeeded in getting rid of the merchants who crowded his decks, he conducted her on shore. Cartier, moved with fatherly compassion towards the young girl whose sufferings seemed more like legend than reality, insisted that she should stay with him and his family till a meeting with De Roberval could be arranged.

A messenger was despatched to Picardy, but returned with the information that De Roberval had long been absent from his castle. He was busy in the wars; but as Paris would doubtless be his head-quarters, Charles and Marguerite determined to seek him there.

All this time no word of love had crossed La Pommeraye's lips. He yearned with unutterable longing to claim as his own the right to cherish and protect Marguerite for the rest of her life, but daily he realised how deep was the gulf which separated them. Her heart, he knew, could only be won across Claude's grave, and each time that he tried to speak, the vision of the desolate cemetery on the island rose before him, and the words froze on his lips. Marguerite could not help seeing his devotion; but she so carefully avoided giving him any sign of encouragement that the weeks at the manor-house of Limoilou, and the subsequent journey to Paris, were both passed without La Pommeraye's being able to get any nearer to her. Ungrateful she could not be. She felt for the fair giant a tender, sisterly affection, and learned to understand how Claude and Marie had both had for him such an unbounded admiration.

At Paris Charles established her in a secluded quarter—for although she had friends in the city, both deemed it wise that for the present, absolutely no one should know of her return. All deemed her dead; and for a time she must still be dead to the world. La Pommeraye was careful to avoid his old haunts and friends, but in no way relaxed his quest of information about De Roberval's movements. He learned that the nobleman was not then in the city, but that within a week he would return.

With this news he hastened to Marguerite. She was deeply moved on learning that she was so soon to be confronted with her uncle. How should she meet him? What would he have to say to her, whom he doubtless believed long dead?

Her life had become a strange chaos. She hardly knew why she had allowed herself to be brought to Paris. It would be impossible ever to resume the old relations with her uncle; but to live much longer dependent upon strangers was out of the question. Some arrangements for her future must be made without delay, but in any case De Roberval must be informed of her presence. Feeling of any kind seemed almost dead within her, but remembering the circumstances of their parting, she could not look forward to meeting her uncle again without a tremor of anticipation.

She noted the fire in La Pommeraye's eye, as he walked up and down her apartment, after giving her the information; and a day or two afterwards when he came to consult her about some business matters, she asked him what his plans were.

"I shall seek out Sieur de Roberval," said Charles, "as soon as he arrives, and arrange a meeting between you in whatever way you may direct me. And then——"

He checked himself abruptly; but Marguerite saw the flash of his eye, and the resolute expression his mouth assumed as he kept back the words which had been on his lips. She laid her hand gently on his arm.

"M. de la Pommeraye," she said, "you have proved yourself a true and devoted friend to me. I know that I can never hope to repay your unselfish sacrifices; nor can I ever express even a small part of my gratitude for all that you have so nobly done. Nay, listen to me——" as Charles was about to interrupt her. "I feel more deeply than I can tell you; you must let me speak this once. I am not ungrateful, believe me." Her voice trembled a little, though she controlled it instantly. "But I am about to ask one more kindness at your hands. There has been enough blood shed—too much. Unhappy woman that I am, how shall I render an account of all the deaths of which I have been the cause?" She turned away for a moment; and the rare sobs shook her slight figure. Charles was awed into silence before a sorrow too deep for any words. At last she turned to him, and with an imploring gesture said: "I beg of you to spare my uncle's life."

La Pommeraye began his habitual stride up and down the room. His brow was dark, and he gnawed his underlip savagely. That she should plead for the life of the man who had brought all this upon her was to him inexplicable. Was he then to be baulked of his revenge?

Marguerite stood awaiting his answer.

"Monsieur," she said at last, "will you add one more to my sorrows?"

The unutterable sadness of the tone went to La Pommeraye's heart. Impulsively he knelt before her.

"Mademoiselle," he said, "if an angel from heaven had appeared to me and asked me to have mercy on that villain, I should have perilled my own soul rather than let him go unpunished. But now——"

His voice failed him. He took her hand and gazed into her face. All his soul was in his eyes; and in that yearning look Marguerite read his secret. He was about to speak, but she stopped him.

"Rise," she said gently, "you are too noble to kneel to me. You are my best friend—the only friend I have in the world. Remember, I am entirely alone. I trust you, Monsieur; I place myself absolutely in your hands. Will you grant my request?"

She had chosen her words well. Charles saw that she had understood him, and had wished to prevent his speaking of his love. The gentle reminder of her helpless dependence on him called forth all his manhood and chivalry, and silenced the passionate avowal he had been about to make. He pressed her hand, and raised it to his lips.

"Your wish is my law, Mademoiselle," he said, and, controlling himself with an effort, he bade her adieu and hastened from the house.

Out in the streets of the city he walked, he cared not whither. Passers-by turned to look at him; but he heeded no one. He strode on, absorbed in his own inward struggle, till he drew near the Church of the Innocents, in the heart of the city. A party of nobles were approaching, and as they passed him, a burst of laughter from among them attracted his attention. He raised his eyes; saw De Roberval, and his sword leaped from its scabbard. Half-a-dozen other weapons instantly flashed in the sunlight; but La Pommeraye, recollecting that he had no quarrel with any save one of their number, sheathed his blade, and unheeding the shouts of welcome from some of the party who recognised him, beckoned De Roberval aside from the group.

"My presence here alarms you," he said, for the nobleman's sudden pallor had not escaped his notice. "And with good reason. I have but just returned from the Isle of Demons."

"Indeed; and what concern of mine is that?" returned De Roberval, with an assumption of carelessness, though he could not altogether steady his voice.

Charles looked him straight in the face.

"Coward and murderer!" he said between his teeth.

"They are dead then?" said De Roberval, still striving to speak calmly.

"Dead!"

De Roberval had taken a quick resolve. Mastering himself with a great effort, he said hurriedly: "We cannot speak of it now. Meet me to-night at this spot, and the darkest tale you have to tell I will listen to. If you desire my life, I am weary of it, and would gladly lay it down."

The man had aged greatly since Charles last saw him. His shoulders were bent; his hair was almost white; and his face was thin and worn. Something in his voice made Charles believe that he was sincere, and for a moment a feeling almost akin to pity stirred in his heart.

"It is well," said he. "To-night, at eight o'clock, I will be here," and without so much as a word to the nobleman's companions, he strode away. He returned to Marguerite, and told her of the encounter with her uncle, and the meeting which had been arranged for the evening. The news evidently agitated her greatly.

"Have you told him of my presence here?" she asked. "Does he expect me to meet him?"

"He knows naught of your return," answered La Pommeraye. "I had no opportunity to tell him. He thinks you perished on the island."

"But you will tell him to-night?"

"I have been thinking of a plan," said Charles. "Would it not be well for you to wait within the Church of the Innocents, where I am to meet him, while I warn him of your return, and prepare him to meet you?"

Marguerite grasped at the idea. She dreaded, above all things, another quarrel between La Pommeraye and her uncle; and her presence would be a safeguard against bloodshed. As she prepared to accompany Charles, her thoughts went back to that other evening—nearly five years before—when she had been present at an encounter between these same two men. The object she now had in view was the same—to save her uncle's life; but the circumstances—how different! Could the veil have been lifted from the future on that first meeting, would she not have been tempted to leave him to the mercy of his enemy's sword? And now she was accompanying that enemy—who had proved himself her friend when she had no other in all the world—to keep him from avenging her wrongs upon the man who should have been her natural protector. Her brain swam as these thoughts crowded upon her; and she was glad to take refuge in the dimly-lighted church, and to quiet her distracted spirit in silent prayer before the altar.

La Pommeraye, outside, paced up and down, awaiting De Roberval's arrival. His hand was on his sword-hilt, and his watchful eye kept a sharp look-out on all sides; for in spite of the nobleman's parting words to him in the afternoon, he had already had but too good reason to suspect him of treachery.

And in fact, De Roberval had resolved within himself to add yet one more brutal deed to the long list which had ruined his life, and changed him from a gentleman and a man of honour to a bully, a coward, and an assassin. La Pommeraye had returned to France. He had but to open his lips, and De Roberval's life was at his mercy. Nor could the nobleman recover from the stinging indignity and humiliation which Charles had put upon him at their last meeting. From first to last, he had owed him a bitter grudge—all the more bitter, because, in a moment of cowardice, he had taken advantage of the noble fellow's generosity to shield himself from defeat and dishonour. No, there was no alternative; La Pommeraye must die; and with that death all evidence of his crimes would be removed. He had no fear from the men who had accompanied Charles to America; he had made inquiries, and learned that they were none but fishermen and sailors; and any version of the story they might have brought back would be too garbled and exaggerated to be believed.

But he feared La Pommeraye's sword, and under his doublet he put on a shirt of mail. Seeking the quarters of a reckless cut-throat, who would have assassinated his own father for a few sous, he gave him a purse of gold, and letting him know the nature of the work before him, bade him strike sure and sharp, as soon as La Pommeraye was engaged in conversation; and instead of a purse, he would fill his cap with gold.

At the appointed hour he went to the rendezvous, where La Pommeraye was impatiently awaiting him.

The nobleman's demeanour had entirely changed since he left Charles in the afternoon. He now assumed the dignity of a man who has been unjustly suspected, and is prepared to avenge an insult.

"So, Monsieur," he said, as Charles approached him, "you are still determined to harrow up the past, and to compel me to acknowledge once more the dishonour which has befallen my name."

"I am here," said Charles, his hot blood all aflame in an instant at the implied slur on Marguerite, "to call you to account for the death of Claude de Pontbriand, and for the foul wrong you did your innocent niece."

As he spoke he rested his hand on his sword. De Roberval saw the action, thought he meant to draw it, and his own weapon flashed from its sheath. At this moment Marguerite appeared at the door of the church. She saw her uncle draw his sword, and thinking they were about to fight, rushed down the steps just as De Roberval made a pass at La Pommeraye, who, adroitly stepping aside, escaped being wounded, and drawing his own sword, stood on the defensive. As he did so, he heard a step behind him. A sudden instinct warned him; leaping back, he barely escaped a treacherous thrust from behind. At the same instant, De Roberval caught sight of his niece's pale face in the uncertain light; and, striking wildly at La Pommeraye, fell forward at the latter's feet.

Charles heeded him not. His blood was roused, and turning on the would-be assassin, who was about to flee in terror, he ran him through the heart.

Then seeing that De Roberval made no attempt to rise, he stooped and turned him on his side, and saw that his hand clung in a death-grip to his sword-hilt, while the point of the weapon had pierced his brain. It was Bayard's sword; the sword the king had given him in the hour of his ambition. In his terror at the sudden apparition of what he believed to be his niece's spirit, his foot had slipped, and the stroke he had intended for La Pommeraye had ended his own life.