It is difficult to imagine the feelings of the skippers and crews of the good ship Plover and Mary and Joyce, when the gray light of dawn disclosed the fact that the Heart of the West had vanished completely. What a rubbing of eyes must have taken place! What a dropping of whiskered jaws and ripping of sea oaths!

"Sunk," said one heavy-shouldered mariner.

"Then where be her spars?" inquired a messmate.

"Cut an' run," suggested another.

"Then the devil must have been after her! Ol' Trowley'd run from nothin' else," replied the cook of the Plover.

The captain of the Mary and Joyce scanned the inner harbour and what he could see of the outer bay. Then he turned his brass telescope upon the cliffs and hills and inland woods.

"Maybe the French has towed mun out," he said at last.

No fishing was done that day. The neighbouring bays and coves were searched, and even the "River of Three Fires" was investigated, with a deal of trouble, for several miles up its swift current. That night the skippers of the two vessels decided, over several hot glasses, that Wigwam Harbour was no safe place for honest English sailor men. Next morning found them sailing northward in search of another haven from which to reap the harvest of the great bay.

To Fort Beatrix journeyed all the Beothics from many miles around, for a great trade was going on. Influenced by Maggie Stone's foolish outbreak, Beatrix and Bernard had decided to seek a priest in the port of St. John's on their way to England, and so cross the ocean as man and wife, to the bitter chagrin of Bristol scandal-mongers. Though the idea had not occurred to either of the lovers before the old woman's outcry in the name of suffering propriety, it was none the less to their liking now that they had accepted it.

"And it will please poor Maggie Stone," said the girl.

"I was not thinking of her," replied Kingswell, lifting the glowing face to his by a hand beneath the rounded chin.

"Nor I, dear heart," she replied.

To the others of that wilderness the trading seemed a greater matter than that romantic attachment of a man and a maid. Blankets, trinkets, inferior weapons, and even the spare clothing of the settlers were bartered for pelts of beaver, mink, marten, otter, musquash, and red, patched, and black fox, to make up a cargo for the Heart of the West. The price of an axe-head was twice its weight in beaver skins. Even Maggie Stone, with an eye to adding to her nest-egg, traded a skillet (the identical implement with which she had floored D'Antons) for a beautiful foxskin. Only Trowley had no finger in the trading. Sullen and silent, he wandered about the fort, and a few paces behind him a brawny Beothic always stalked.

The storehouse of the fort was replenished from the well-stocked pantries and lazaret of the ship. Kingswell smiled grimly when, during the overhauling of the cabin lockers, he discovered choice wines, cheeses, and pots of jam which his lady mother had given to Master Trowley as a slight mark of her gratitude for his services to her son. He forced an admittance of these things from the old rascal himself. It had been as he had hinted to Beatrix. The fellow had told the tearful and credulous lady that he had risked his life in her son's defence, during an engagement with the savages; and she, grateful heart, had made such an unbusiness-like agreement with him for the sailing of the ship that, had the voyage run its anticipated course, even a full load of fish would not have saved her from a shrewd loss. Happily for Trowley, Master Kingswell was far too happy for such trivial matters to really anger him.

"The old rogue staked his soul and lost on the last throw," he said to Beatrix, "and I staked my heart, and won all that the world holds of joy. Surely I should be a low fellow to add to his misfortunes, poor devil. I can afford to be charitable now."

They were seated on the grassy edge of the river meadow, looking out at the anchored ship, where sailors were repairing the rigging and scraping the spars. The girl did not seem keenly interested in Trowley's underhand behaviour to Dame Kingswell. As to his treachery toward Kingswell, to tell the truth, she was very grateful to the old thief for having sailed away and left her lover in the wilderness. Such thoughts flitted pleasantly through her mind.

"When did you stake your heart?" she asked, as if that were the core of the whole thing.

"I cannot tell you the date exactly," replied Kingswell, "but I was in Pierre d'Antons' company at the time, and—and I was mightily surprised to find Somersetshire people in this country. Lord, but your eyes were bright."

"Do you mean that you—do you mean that it happened on the first day of your arrival at the fort?" she queried.

"Surely," said he.

"And you loved me then?"

He nodded, smiling across toward the busy mariners in the rigging of his ship. His memories of those perilous days were fragrant as an English rose-garden.

"Do you know," she whispered, "that, though I felt sure I had made an impression on you then, I began to doubt it later. You were so self-satisfied that you shook my faith in my own powers to charm."

He laughed softly, and with a note of wonder. Then, for a little while, they were silent.

"Tell me," she said, suddenly. "Did you really love me that first day you came to the fort, or was it just—just surprise at seeing a—a civilized girl in so forsaken a place?"

He considered the question gravely and at some length. "I wanted to kill D'Antons," he answered, presently, "and I would gladly have given ten years of my life for a kiss from your lips, a caress from your hands. Was that love, think you?"

"I should call it a right hopeful beginning," she replied, brightly; but tears which she could not explain shone in her eyes. Across the hurrying water drifted the song of the men at work upon the tall masts of the Heart of the West.

"In a week's time," said Kingswell, "she will fill her sails for St. John's—and then for home."

The girl nestled closer to his side. Looking down, he saw that she was weeping.

"God grant that we find a parson in that harbour," he added. She nodded, and choked with a sob she could not stifle.

"Why do you weep, dearest?" he asked.

"For those whom we must leave behind," she whispered.

He had no answer to make to that. Together they looked beyond the anchored ship and the bright river to the inscrutable wilderness that held the fate of the mad baronet so securely.