The wilderness, that grim thing of naked rock, brown barren, gray marsh, and black wood, which had claimed the mad baronet so surely, was unable to keep Pierre d'Antons in its spacious prison. With the return of summer, the dark adventurer and the Beothic girl deserted their inland retreat, and set out for a certain grim cape which thrusts far into the Atlantic. The crown of that cape affords an uninterrupted view to seaward and north and south across the waters of two great bays. A fire at night, or a column of smoke in the day, glowing or streaming upward from that vantage place, would be sighted from the deck of a passing ship at a distance of many miles.

The journey proved a long and trying one, through swamps and barrens, and over rock-tumbled knolls. Streams were forded, lakes circumambulated, and rivers crossed on insecure rafts. Through it all, the native girl, Miwandi, kept a brave heart and bright face. D'Antons, however, was preoccupied in his manner, and even gloomy at times. The hardships of that wild existence had begun to tell on his body, and the loneliness to fret his nerves. His infatuation for Mistress Westleigh had dimmed and faded out altogether, leaving only a mean desire for the salve of revenge with which to soothe his injured pride. He would wound her through Kingswell. Sometimes a fear oppressed him that his men might have forgotten his mastery by this time, and might fail, after the two seasons of silence, to continue their cruising of those northern waters throughout June and July, as he had commanded. But that doubt only troubled him in his darkest moods. The loyalty of his subordinate buccaneers of the Cristobal was not to be questioned seriously, for it had been tested in many tight places. Comradeship often forms as trusty ties between the hearts of pirates as between the hearts of honest gentlemen. Once grown beyond the temptations of greed and treachery, it is a safe thing, this loyalty of desperate men for their messmates.

It was Pierre d'Antons' dream to regain the deck of the Cristobal (with Miwandi, of course), and to appear, some fine day, before the little fort of Gray Goose River; to put the settlers to the sword, the buildings to the torch, and to carry the English beauty away with him. He felt that his passion for the proud lady might be easily and pleasantly refired. But he made no mention of Mistress Westleigh to Miwandi, the Beothic girl.

After more than a week of hard travelling, the two ascended the wooded ridge which runs seaward to the bleak and elevated acres of the grim cape of their desire. In a shaggy grove they set up their lodge. At the extremity of the headland, high above the wheeling, screaming gulls and noddies, D'Antons built a circular fireplace of the stones that lay about. Completed, it looked like an altar reared by some benighted priesthood to the gods of the wind and the sea. But no such thought occurred to its architect. His case was too desperate to allow his mind to indulge in such whimsical fancies.

While the woman went in quest of food—fish, flesh, or fowl, what did it matter which?—the man gathered wood and piled it near the queer hearth. He worked without intermission until Miwandi returned from her foraging with a string of bright trout in her hand. Then he built a modest fire within the rough walls of his furnace, and helped the girl clean and cook the fish. By that time the glow of the afternoon was centred behind the gloomy hills, and a clear twilight was over the sea; but as yet the atmosphere held no suggestion of dusk. No sail broke the wide expanse of dark blue ocean with its flake of gray; but to the nor'east a whale breached and blew its little fountain of spray across the still line of the horizon. D'Antons and Miwandi noted these things as they ate, but made no comment upon them.

For several days after the arrival of the two upon the overseeing headland, D'Antons made no other use of his furnace than for the cooking of meals. For that purpose it served admirably, for the walls protected the flame from the ever-flying winds that prevailed over that exposed spot. The adventurer knew that he was early for the Cristobal. Several sails were detected; but of them the only heed taken was the precaution of blanketing the little fire in the hearth with damp soil. The Frenchman did not desire a visit from fishermen of any nationality whatever. He might find it difficult to explain his presence in so unfavourable a spot for either a fishery or a settlement. No doubt they would persist in rescuing him, and, in that case, what reason could he give for wishing to stay in his cheerless camp? So he lay low and watched the passing of more than one stout craft without a sign.

The time arrived when he must set his signals, despite the risk of attracting unwelcome visitors. So he closed the front of the furnace with a boulder, built a brisk fire within, which he heaped with damp moss and punk, and then laid a large, flat stone over the opening in the top of the unique structure. By removing the flat stone, he allowed a column of dense smoke to issue into the air, stream aloft and scatter in the wind. By replacing the stone, the smoke was cut short off. Finding that the contrivance worked to his satisfaction, he let the smoke stream up, uninterrupted. The signalling would only be resorted to when a vessel, which might possibly be the Cristobal, should be sighted. When darkness fell, the fire was allowed to die down. A night signal was unnecessary, as the Cristobal, should she keep the tryst at all, was sure to make an examination of the cape by daylight. D'Antons' last orders had been strictly and particularly to that effect.

A week passed, during which a sharp lookout was kept by the fugitives on the brow of the cape, and the signal of smoke was operated a dozen times without the desired effect. In fact, a large vessel, attracted by the smoke (which was due to D'Antons' tardy realization that the approaching ship was not the Cristobal) altered her course, sailed close in, and sent a boat ashore to investigate. D'Antons and Miwandi had just enough time, with not a minute to spare, to roll up their wigwam and hide it in the bushes, gather together their most valuable belongings, and flee inland to a shelter of tangled spruces and firs. The boat's crew was composed of peaceful fishermen, who were free from suspicion and malice. They climbed to the brow of the promontory with fine hardihood, but once there did little but examine the marks where the lodge had so lately stood and partially overthrow the queer fireplace. They believed that structure to be an altar, built to the glory of some unorthodox god. Then they retraced their perilous way to the little cove under the cliff, and rowed back to the ship. D'Antons stole from his retreat and crawled to the edge of the cliff. He felt a glow of satisfaction when the big vessel stood away on her northward course.

Another week drifted along, and hope wavered in the buccaneer heart. His gloomy moods began to wear on the young squaw's spirits. She begged him to return to the inland rivers—to make peace with her people—to cease his unprofitable staring at the sea.

"The sorrow of the great salt water has entered your heart," she said, "and the moaning of it has deafened your ears to my voice."

He did not turn his eyes from the undulations of the gray horizon. "Would you have me rot in this place for the remainder of my life?" he asked, harshly, in her language.

The poor girl sobbed for an hour after that, and reproved her heart for the image of a god it had set up. She tried to overthrow the idol from its inner shrine; she tried to change it to a grim symbol of hate; she pressed her face to the coarse herbage, and tore the sod with her fingers.

"Miwandi! Come to me, little one," cried the man from the edge of the cliff.

Her anger, her bitterness, vanished like thinnest smoke. She sprang up and ran to him. He drew her to his side, and with his right hand pointed southward across the glinting deep.

"The Cristobal!" he cried. "Good God, I'll stake my life on it!"

So intense was his satisfaction at the sight of those unmistakable topsails that his selfish affection for the woman lighted again. He pressed his lips to the tear-wet cheek; and immediately the simple creature was in the seventh heaven of bliss.

While the gray flake of sail expanded on the horizon, Pierre d'Antons and the woman hurriedly and roughly rebuilt the walls of the fireplace, lit and fed a blaze, and piled it high with moss and rotten bark. The thick pillar of smoke arose like a tree, and bent in the moderate wind. Miwandi busied herself with breaking the wood to the required length and carrying damp moss. For several minutes the smoke was allowed to ascend in an unbroken shaft. Then D'Antons cut it off for a few seconds, let it rise again, broke it again, and again let it stream aloft, uninterrupted. He had signalled his name according to the code of the Cristobal.

The welcome ship gradually enlarged to the eager eyes of the watchers on the cape. North, east, and south there was no other sail in sight. At last three flags ran up to the topforemast and fluttered out. The question was read instantly by D'Antons, who returned to his fire and interrupted the stream of smoke five times in quick succession. The translation of that was "All's well. You may approach without danger."

A message of congratulation appeared promptly against the bellying foresail of the Cristobal; and the watchers saw the rolls of white foam gleaming like wool under the forging of the bow.

D'Antons was cordially welcomed aboard the Cristobal. Miwandi was received without question. The acting commander of the ship was a grizzled Spanish mariner by the name of Silva,—a fellow steeped in crime and uncertain of temper, yet possessed of a marvellous devotion for D'Antons, which was due to an act of kindness performed by the Frenchman years before, in the town of Panama.

Silva was delighted to find his captain alive and ready for the high seas again. He asked no questions concerning his adventures until more than one bottle of wine had been emptied, and the captain's travel-stained garments had been exchanged for the best the cabin lockers contained. Miwandi, too, was reclothed; and the beauty and softness of the silks that were presented to her fairly turned her little head. She did not know that the fair French lady for whom they had been made, in gay Paris, and who had worn them only three months ago, was somewhere in the dredge of emerald tides between the Bahaman reefs. She knew only that the texture and colours delighted her skin and her eyes. So, in her narrow room, she attired herself in the finery, toiling at the ties and lacing with unfamiliar fingers.

In the captain's cabin D'Antons motioned to his friend to close the door. He had consumed a soup, and was still engaged with the wine. Silva returned to his seat at the table, after a final reassuring push on the bolt of the door. It is always wise to be sure that the door you considered fastened is fastened indeed. Then, with their elbows on the table and their heads close together, the more salient incidents of D'Antons' sojourn in the wilderness were rehearsed and keenly listened to. Silva displayed a prodigious indignation at the story of the captain's failure to win the affections of Mistress Westleigh. At word of Sir Ralph's death (and the murder became a desperate duel in the telling), a crooked smile of satisfaction distorted his face. As to what he heard of Kingswell—ah, but oaths in two languages were quite inadequate for the expression of his feelings.

"We'll inspect the heart of that cockerel—and the gizzard as well," said he, and drank off his wine.

"Leave him to my hand," replied D'Antons, darkly.

Silva nodded, with a sinister leer.

"So it's 'bout ship and blow the little stockade into everlasting damnation," he said.

"Ay, but the lady must come to no harm in the attack," warned the captain.

So the Cristobal headed northward, and the evil-looking rascals of her crew were informed that the morrow would bring them some work to limber their muscles. The information was received with cheers, in which hearty English voices were not lacking.

However, in the early morning, Fate, in the shape of the Heart of the West, turned the danger away from the little fort.

"She looks like a likely prize," said D'Antons, when he sighted the ship. The old fever awoke in his blood. He longed for the old excitement.

"Give chase," he ordered. "The fort can well do without the honour of our attentions for a little while."

So the chase was carried on, as has been described in a previous chapter, and went merrily enough for the Cristobal until the unexpected shot from the stern of the quarry brought down her foretopmast and its weight of sail. But before that had happened, D'Antons, unrecognizable himself in new clothes and a great hat, marked Bernard Kingswell on the poop of the Heart of the West. He cursed like a madman, or a true-bred pirate, when his ship was crippled.

"The fort may rot of old age in the midst of its desolation," he cried to Silva, "for what I would have is aboard that cursed craft ahead."

A few days later, with their spars repaired, they picked up a small fishing-boat, and learned from the skipper that a great ship from the north had entered the harbour of St. John's. So, knowing the virtue of precaution, they impressed the master and crew and scuttled the little vessel. Then, with admirable patience, they cruised up and down, far to seaward of the brown cliffs which guarded that hospitable port.