Two headlands were rounded before the valley of the river opened again to the eyes of the adventurers. The brown water of the stream stole down and merged into the dancing, wind-bitten sea. The gradual hillsides, green-swarded, basked in the golden light. The lower levels of the valley were already in shadow. No sign of man, or of his habitation, was disclosed to the voyagers.

"A fair spot," remarked Kingswell. "I feel a desire stirring within me to stretch my legs on that grassy bank. What do you say to the idea, Tom?"

The old fellow grinned. "'Twould be pleasant, sir, an' no mistake," he replied—"a little walk along the brook, with our hands not very far from our hangers. Ay, sir, Tom Bent's for a spell o' nater worship."

The boat ran in, and was beached on the sand well within the mouth of the river. Harding and Clotworthy, with loaded muskets, were left on guard, and the other three, fully armed, started along the bank of the stream. They advanced cautiously, with a sharp lookout on every clump of bushes and every spur of rock. A kingfisher dropped from its perch above the water and flew up-stream with shrill clamour. They turned a bend of the little river and halted short in their track with muttered exclamations. Before them, on a level meadow between the brown waters of the stream and the dark green wall of the forest, stood half a dozen wigwams. The place seemed deserted. They scanned the dark edge of the wood and the brown hills behind. They peered everywhere, expecting to catch the glint of hostile eyes at every turn. But neither grove nor hill, nor silent lodge, disclosed any sign of life.

"Where the devil are they?" exclaimed Kingswell, thoroughly perplexed.

Ouenwa smiled, and swept his hand in a half-circle.

"Watch us," he remarked, nodding his head. "Yes, watch us."

"He means they are lying around looking at us," said Kingswell to the boatswain. "Rip me, but I don't relish the chance of one of those stone-tipped arrows in my vitals."

Tom Bent glanced about him in visible trepidation. Ouenwa noticed it, and pointed to the seaman's musket. "No 'fraid," he said. "Shoot."

"What at?" inquired Bent.

"Make shoot," cried the boy, indicating the silent wood, dusky in the gathering shadows.

"He wants you to fire into the wood, and frighten them out," said Kingswell.

"If they be there, I'm for lettin' 'em stay there," replied Tom.

However, he fixed his murderous weapon in its support, aimed at the edge of the forest beyond the wigwams, and fired. The flame cut across the twilight like a red sword; a dismal howl arose and quivered in the air. It was answered from the hilltops on both sides of the stream.

Before the echoes had died away, Ouenwa was inside the nearest lodge. Kingswell followed, and found him dismantling the couches and walls of their valuable furs. He instantly took a hand in the looting. Soon each had all he could handle. They carried their burdens from the lodge, and, with Tom as a rear-guard, marched back toward the Pelican. They had rounded the bend of the river, and the two seamen were hurrying to meet them, when old Tom Bent suddenly uttered an indignant whoop and leaped into the air. His musket flew from his shoulder and clattered against a stone. Kingswell and Ouenwa threw down their bundles and sprang to where he lay, kicking and spluttering. The feathered shaft of an arrow clung to the middle of his left thigh. He was swearing wildly, and vowing vengeance on the "heathen varment" who had pinked him.

Harding and Clotworthy fired into the shadows of the wooded hillside, and Kingswell hoisted the struggling boatswain to his shoulders and continued his advance on the boat. The old sailor begged and implored his commander to put him down, assuring him that he was more surprised than hurt. But Kingswell turned a deaf ear to his entreaties, and did not release him until they were safe beside the Pelican's bows. Just then Ouenwa and the sailors came running up with the looted pelts. All were puzzled. Why had the hidden enemy fired only one arrow, when they might have annihilated the little party with a volley?

That night the Pelican lay at anchor in the mouth of the river. Twice, during the long, eerie hours between dark and dawn, the man on duty woke his companions; but on both occasions the alarms proved to be false—the splashing of a marauding otter near the shore or the flop of a feeding trout. Under the pale lights of the morning the valley and the stream lay as peaceful and deserted as on the preceding evening. The voyagers ate their breakfast aboard. Then, as soon as the sun had cleared the light mist from the water, they got up their anchor and rowed up-stream. Harding and Clotworthy pulled on the oars. Bent and the commander crouched in the bows, with ready muskets, and Ouenwa sat at the tiller. The current was strong, and the boat crawled slowly against the twirling sinews of water. Little patches of spindrift, from some fall or rapid farther up the river, floated past them. The pebbly bottom flashed beneath the amber tide. Leaping fish gleamed and splashed on either hand, and sent silver circles rippling to the toiling boat. A moist, sweet fragrance of foliage and mould and dew filled the air.

Soon the deserted lodges came into view, standing smokeless and pathetic between the murmuring river and the brooding trees. Kingswell motioned to Ouenwa to head for the low bank in front of the wigwams. They landed without incident, and all walked toward the village, with their firearms ready and their matches lighted. They explored every lodge and even beat the underbrush. The dwellings had been cleared of pelts and weapons and cooking utensils evidently during the night. A village of this size must have possessed at least six canoes; but not a canoe, nor so much as a paddle, could they find.

"All run in canoe," remarked Ouenwa, pointing up-stream.

"What be this?" asked Tom Bent, limping toward Kingswell with an arrow and a small square of birch bark in his hand. He had found the bark, pinned by the arrow, to the side of one of the wigwams. Kingswell examined it intently, and shook his head.

"Pictures," he said. "I suppose it is a letter of some kind, in which their wise man tells us what he thinks of us."

Ouenwa took the bark and surveyed the roughly sketched figures, with which it was covered, with a scornful twist of his face.

"Wolf," he said, indicating the central figure. "See! Very big! Bear"—he touched another point of the missive and then tapped his own breast—"see bear! Him no big! Wolf eat bear." He laughed shrilly, and shook his head. "No, no," he said. "No, no."

"What be mun jabberin' about?" muttered Tom Bent.

Kingswell explained that the bear stood for Ouenwa's family, and that the wolf was the symbol of the people who had killed his grandfather.

The Pelican continued her voyage before noon, and all day skirted an austere and broken coast. She crossed the mouths of many wide bays, steering for the purple headlands beyond. She rounded many islands and braved intricate channels. Toward evening she rounded a bluffer, grimmer cape than any of the day's experience, and Kingswell, who had just relieved Harding at the tiller, forsook the straight course and headed up the bay. Two hours of brisk sailing brought them to a sheltered roadstead behind an island and just off a wooded cove. They lowered the sail and rowed in close to the beach. They built no fire, and spent the night close to the tide, with their muskets and cutlasses beside them, and the watch changed every two hours.

Three days later the voyagers happened upon a ship. They ran close in to where she lay at anchor, believing her to be English, and did not discover their mistake until the little tub of a brig opened fire from a brass cannonade. The first shot went wide, and the Pelican lay off with a straining sail. The second shot fell short, and that ended the encounter, for the Frenchmen were too busy fishing to get up anchor and give chase.

Old Tom Bent was quite cast down over the incident. "It be the first time," he said, "that I ever seen a Frencher admiral o' a bay in Newfoundland. One year I were fishin' in the Maid o' Bristol, in Dog's Harbour, Conception, an', though we was last to drop anchor, an' the only English ship agin six Frenchers and two Spanishers, by Gad, our skipper said he were admiral—an', by Gad, so he were."

But the valorous old mariner did not suggest that they put about and dispute the admiralty of the little harbour which they had just passed.