Chapter Five.

Chapter Five.The “Enemy.”Meanwhile, Reginald Redding—still breathing defiance to the clan of McLeod, with his heart steeled against all softer influences, and with all his bristles erect—arrived at Jenkins Creek.Seeing no one about the door of the hut, he passed it with an indignant frown, and proceeded direct to the cascade, where, from a considerable distance, he had observed the three settlers as they busily plied their axes.A thaw had set in. The little cascade was beginning to roar ominously, almost savagely, behind the curtain of ice which had concealed almost the whole of it during winter. The ice on the edge of the Saint Lawrence had already given way, and was being swept out to sea in variously-sized fields and masses. Everything gave indication that the reign of winter had come to an end, that the short-lived spring had laid its warm hand on the whole region, and that summer was not far distant. Summer acts its part with promptitude in those regions.Men out there are usually vigorous in taking advantage of the change; the McLeods were making the most of their time when the fur-trader approached.“It should be getting near supper-time,” said the elder McLeod, looking at the sun.“Not far from it,” said Kenneth, flinging down his axe and wiping the perspiration from his brow, as he glanced in the same direction, “what a comfort it is to have Flo to look after meals; it makes one feel—hallo! who come here?—see, two men, rounding the cliff just above the house.”The elder McLeod made no reply, but waited until the strangers were sufficiently near to be addressed; then, touching his cap, he said, “Good evening,” heartily.To this Reginald Redding replied, “Good evening,” stiffly, while his man bestowed a gaze of unmistakable scorn all round.A little surprised, but not much alarmed, by their manner, McLeod said that it was an unusual pleasure to meet with strangers in such an out-of-the-way place; that he and his sons, having finished their day’s work, were about to return to their hut for supper, and that he would be more than delighted if they would take “pot-luck” with them.Redding, who was by nature of a kindly sociable disposition, felt rather put out by this reception, especially when the invitation was pressed on him with much cordiality by Kenneth, as well as by Ian. Even the scorn on Le Rue’s lip began to melt away like the snow! But the fur-trader felt that the interests of his employers were at stake; besides, had he not said to others, had he not vowed to himself, that he would not give way an inch—no, not so much as a hair’s-breadth—to these long-legged interlopers, who, now that he beheld them, were evidently fur-traders in disguise,—men who made use of a so-called saw-mill as a mere blind to divert attention from the real object they had in view.“Sir,” said Redding, with quiet dignity, “I am the Fur Company’s agent in this district, in charge of the Cliff Fort.”Had Redding been in charge of the Rock of Gibraltar, with its mighty armament of heavy guns, he could not have assumed an air of greater importance.“I am glad to hear it,” replied McLeod, more and more perplexed by the youth’s manner, “because I have been anxious for some days to consult you as to the exact boundary line of your Company’s reserve.”“If you will accompany me to the creek,” replied Redding, pointing to the islet on which the McLeods had already marked off a portion of rock and planted a couple of stakes, “I will enlighten you on that point.”“Willingly,” answered McLeod, preparing to follow with his two sons.“Hah!” thought Redding, as he drew near the spot and observed the stakes, “not a doubt of it; inches indeed; they have encroached feet—feet—if notyardson our property.”He gave no audible sound, however, to his thoughts, until the party had reached the islet, which was connected with the mainland by a plank, then he turned to McLeod with the air of a man who has resolved to wage war to the knife for his rights. Le Rue, seeing his master in this mood, drew himself up, compressed his lips, and darkened his frown.“The line of demarcation,” said Redding slowly, but with much decision of tone and manner, “runsexactlydown the centre of this stream and cutspreciselyacross the centre of this rock. Now, sir,” he turned abruptly here to look his adversary full in the face. In doing so his vision, passing over the shoulders of his enemy, encountered the bright face and astonished gaze of Flora McLeod, who had just come to let her father and brothers know that their evening meal awaited them.Reginald Redding was struck dumb. Glancing round to see what had fascinated the gaze of the fur-trader, McLeod turned with a smile, and said:—“My daughter Flora, Mister—ah!—I beg pardon—your name is, I think—”“Redding,” murmured the fur-trader, with hesitation, for he had begun to doubt his own identity.“Just so. Flo has come to tell us, Mr Redding, that supper is ready, so, if you will condescend to accept of our rough and ready hospitality, we shall be delighted. But, before going, pray let us finish this matter. You were about to say—”“Oh, nothing,—nothing worth mentioning,” said Redding hurriedly, endeavouring to recover himself; “I merely—the fact is—that—a rock like this is so—so utterly insignificant that the idea of trespassing on it is quite absurd, quite out of—why, surely Icannotbe mistaken,” he added, lifting his cap, “this must be the young lady whom I had the pleasure of meeting on the road hither at a time when—”“When your presence and aid were most opportune,” interrupted Flora, as she held out her hand with a gracious smile and a blush.Why Flora blushed is best known to herself. The same may be said in regard to the fact that Reginald Redding felt rather awkward—though not naturally an awkward man—and looked rather sheepish as he took the hand timidly. It is also worthy of record that the touch of Flora’s hand sent a galvanic stream up Redding’s arm, which curled round his head, ran down his spine, and passed out into the rock at the extremities of his ten toes!“Indeed!” exclaimed McLeod senior, while a peculiar expression crossed his swarthy countenance as if a new idea had hit him; “then, Mr Redding, I am your debtor; but come, let us to supper before it cools. I suppose that no more need be said about the boundary line. I have not been guilty of trespassing, it seems, on your Company’s reserves?”“Not in the least,” answered the fur-trader promptly, with a glance at his man.“Vraiment, non, cer’nly not!” exclaimed Le Rue emphatically, not a trace of scorn being now visible on his benign countenance.Matters being thus amicably disposed of, the party adjourned to the hut, where they sat down to a substantial repast, the foundation of which was boiled bacon and tea; the superstructure, biscuits and butter.Here François Le Rue met with a profound disappointment. He had rightly judged that, where the mistress dwelt, the maid must necessarily abide; accordingly, on entering the hut, he had the extreme satisfaction of obtaining a glance of grateful recognition from Elise’s bright eyes. But the sanguine trader had also counted on the pleasure of her company at supper in the kitchen of the establishment, while his master should sup with the McLeods in the parlour. In this he was mistaken. In such an out-of-the-way region the young Canadian girl was counted as much a companion as a servant, and while she performed the duties of attendant at the table in the hall, she also sat modestly down at the same table to partake of the evening meal. François, on the other hand, was told to go to the kitchen and make himself comfortable.The kitchen was a little out-house, not unlike a gigantic dog-kennel, separated by a space of six feet or so from the principal dwelling.Opening its door, Le Rue entered with a heavy heart, supposing that he should have to eat his supper in dreary solitude, “not dat I cares moch for dat,” thought he, as he raised the latch, “for I’s accostomed to solitairness; but ah! ven I tinks of—”“Hooroo!” shouted a gruff voice, scattering at once his thoughts and his “solitairness.”Le Rue started as he encountered the surprised gaze of a man, but, being in a crusty humour, he only exclaimed— “Hah!” and returned the gaze.“Sure it’s you or yer ghost,” exclaimed the identical driver whom the two fur-traders had so lately assisted out of difficulties. “Give us yer fist, young man. Ah, then, it’s good luck is yer portion, Rooney. Didn’t I think to sit down to me supper in solitood, whin in comes like a vision the frind as was a frind indade to me and the ladies the other day. Come in, come in, sit ye down there; an’ ait till yer fit to bust. Och! but it’s mesilf is glad this night. There, putt off yer capote; if yer at all like me ye’ll not be fit to taste a morsel till yer in yer shirt sleeves. Howld—I’ll hang it on the peg for ’ee. Now thin, go to work. Don’t spare it. Faix, there’s plinty more where that came from, though there ain’t much variety here. It’s pig for breakfast, pig for dinner, an’ pig for supper—wid a slice o’ cowld pig at odd times whin yer extra hungry. An’ then ye’ll have to pig-in wid myself at night, for there’s only wan bed in this coolinairy mansion, not bein’ room to howld more! That’s yer sort—the tae’s hot, anyhow.”There was no withstanding such a welcome as this. François Le Rue thawed instantly, and thereafter warmed up to intense cordiality while he plied his knife and fork on the “pig,” and quaffed the steaming “tae,” talking between mouthfuls as his voluble friend gave him opportunity.An abrupt check, however, was put to the pleasant flow of his spirits when Rooney, having occasion to refer to “the ladies,” remarked in an enthusiastic tone that Elise was “a angel—nothin’ more nor less—only widout wings.”The demon jealousy instantly fired the soul of the Canadian.“Vat you knows about she?” he demanded, with suppressed emotion.“Knows about her!” exclaimed Rooney, with increased enthusiasm, while Le Rue’s spirit dilated with increasing jealousy, “what do Inotknow about her, is the question. Sure I’ve knowed her iver since she was a purty little curly-hided child; I’ve knowed her goodness to her parients till the day of their death, an’ her gentleness in the time of sorrow, an’ her jollity in the time of joy, an’ her faithfulness to her mistress in adversity, an’ her gin’ral goodness at all times, blissin’s on her!”François ceased devouring “pig,” and played with his knife, while he mentally, almost unconsciously, measured the number of inches that lay between the outside of Rooney’s chest and the core of his heart.“You’se verai fond of her, it seems,” he said, with deep sarcasm.“That’s just what I am,” replied Rooney, stuffing an enormous piece of bacon into his no less enormous mouth. “It’s raison I have too,” he added thickly, but quite audibly, “for she nursed my poor wife through a long illness, an’ it’s my belaif she wouldn’t ha’ bin alive this day but for the care and attintion she got from Elise.”The demon fled horrified out at the key-hole—the window being shut—and Le Rue, feeling the deepest regard for Rooney, relieved his feelings with a sigh and more “pig.”While the Irishman and Canadian were entertaining each other thus in the kitchen, the Highlanders and Englishman were no less cordial and busy in the hall. Rough and ready the hospitality indeed was, for the board was not only uncovered but unplaned, and the dishes were cracked and dinted—according to their nature; but the heartiness of the welcome, the solidity of the simple viands, the strength of appetite, and, above all, the presence of bright eyes and gentle spirits threw a luxurious halo round the humble apartment, in the light of which Reginald Redding revelled.Tea,—the cup which cheers but does not inebriate,—was used at that board as if it had been brandy and water. The men not only drank it during the progress of the meal, but afterwards sat long over it, and dallied with it, and urged each other to “have some more” of it, and quaffed it to the health of absent friends, and told stories, and cut jokes, and sang songs over it, and replenished it with hot water to such an extent that it gradually changed its nature and became that harmless beverage loved by Frenchmen,eau sucré.That it cheered was evident, for laughter was often loud and sometimes long. That it did not inebriate was equally clear, for the talk of the party was frequently grave as well as gay.It was especially grave when, towards the end of the evening, McLeod senior, in answer to some allusion of his guest as to the beauties of Partridge Bay, became confidential, and told how he had once dwelt in that settlement for many years, in a happy home which he had specially built for himself, or rather, as he said, with a kindly glance at his pretty daughter, which he had built specially for his wife and child. How it had pleased God to take from him his dear partner before they had been long in the new house; how the failure of a friend had involved him in ruin, and compelled him to sell off all he had possessed and begin life anew with the scanty remnants of his fortune; how he had taken the advice of another friend, and come to Jenkins Creek to set up a saw-mill, having previously invested nearly all his funds in an order for goods from England, for the purpose of setting up a general store, as it was highly probable the country would go on prospering, and the demand for such a store become great; how he had had letters from his youngest son, Roderick,—a lad of nineteen who had been educated in the “old country,”—telling him that the goods had been bought and shipped in theBetsyof Plymouth, and how that he, Roderick, intended to take passage in the same ship the week following, and join his father and brothers in their new sphere of labour; how that, sometimes, he felt depressed by the sudden reverse of fortune, but was always cheered and raised up again by his daughter Flo, who had a wonderful way—somewhat like her mother—of inducing him, when things looked darkest, to turn his eyes to the source of all light, and comfort, and hope, and prosperity.You may be sure that Reginald Redding listened to all this with the deepest interest and sympathy, for as he glanced at Flora’s speaking countenance—and he did glance at it pretty frequently—he observed new beauty in her expression, and bright tear-drops in her eyes.“Ah, Flo,” said her father, when he had finished, “no one has such good cause to regret the loss of our old home as yourself, for I don’t think Mr Gambart could have planned it without your aid.”“What!” exclaimed Redding, with a look of sudden surprise, “what was the name of your place in Partridge Bay?”“I gave it a Highland name,” said McLeod, with a sad smile, “after a place in Scotland that once belonged to my mother’s family,—Loch Dhu.”For a moment or two the young fur-trader remained speechless. He looked first at Flora and then at her father, and after that at her brothers, without being able to make up his mind how to act. He now understood the reason of Gambart’s silence as to the former owners of Loch Dhu, and he would have given worlds at that moment if he had never seen or heard of the place, for it seemed such a heartless position to be placed in—the fortunate owner of the lovely spot, over the loss of which Flora and her family evidently mourned so deeply. He could not bear the thought of having to reveal the truth; still less could he bear the thought of concealing it. He was therefore about to make the disagreeable confession, when the thoughts of the whole party were suddenly diverted to another channel, by the opening of the door and the entrance of one of those gaunt sons of the forest who were wont to hang on the skirts of civilisation, as it advanced to wrest from them their native wilderness.The Indian stalked into the room, handed a dirty piece of folded paper to McLeod, and sat down beside the fire, after the fashion of his race, in solemn silence.

Meanwhile, Reginald Redding—still breathing defiance to the clan of McLeod, with his heart steeled against all softer influences, and with all his bristles erect—arrived at Jenkins Creek.

Seeing no one about the door of the hut, he passed it with an indignant frown, and proceeded direct to the cascade, where, from a considerable distance, he had observed the three settlers as they busily plied their axes.

A thaw had set in. The little cascade was beginning to roar ominously, almost savagely, behind the curtain of ice which had concealed almost the whole of it during winter. The ice on the edge of the Saint Lawrence had already given way, and was being swept out to sea in variously-sized fields and masses. Everything gave indication that the reign of winter had come to an end, that the short-lived spring had laid its warm hand on the whole region, and that summer was not far distant. Summer acts its part with promptitude in those regions.

Men out there are usually vigorous in taking advantage of the change; the McLeods were making the most of their time when the fur-trader approached.

“It should be getting near supper-time,” said the elder McLeod, looking at the sun.

“Not far from it,” said Kenneth, flinging down his axe and wiping the perspiration from his brow, as he glanced in the same direction, “what a comfort it is to have Flo to look after meals; it makes one feel—hallo! who come here?—see, two men, rounding the cliff just above the house.”

The elder McLeod made no reply, but waited until the strangers were sufficiently near to be addressed; then, touching his cap, he said, “Good evening,” heartily.

To this Reginald Redding replied, “Good evening,” stiffly, while his man bestowed a gaze of unmistakable scorn all round.

A little surprised, but not much alarmed, by their manner, McLeod said that it was an unusual pleasure to meet with strangers in such an out-of-the-way place; that he and his sons, having finished their day’s work, were about to return to their hut for supper, and that he would be more than delighted if they would take “pot-luck” with them.

Redding, who was by nature of a kindly sociable disposition, felt rather put out by this reception, especially when the invitation was pressed on him with much cordiality by Kenneth, as well as by Ian. Even the scorn on Le Rue’s lip began to melt away like the snow! But the fur-trader felt that the interests of his employers were at stake; besides, had he not said to others, had he not vowed to himself, that he would not give way an inch—no, not so much as a hair’s-breadth—to these long-legged interlopers, who, now that he beheld them, were evidently fur-traders in disguise,—men who made use of a so-called saw-mill as a mere blind to divert attention from the real object they had in view.

“Sir,” said Redding, with quiet dignity, “I am the Fur Company’s agent in this district, in charge of the Cliff Fort.”

Had Redding been in charge of the Rock of Gibraltar, with its mighty armament of heavy guns, he could not have assumed an air of greater importance.

“I am glad to hear it,” replied McLeod, more and more perplexed by the youth’s manner, “because I have been anxious for some days to consult you as to the exact boundary line of your Company’s reserve.”

“If you will accompany me to the creek,” replied Redding, pointing to the islet on which the McLeods had already marked off a portion of rock and planted a couple of stakes, “I will enlighten you on that point.”

“Willingly,” answered McLeod, preparing to follow with his two sons.

“Hah!” thought Redding, as he drew near the spot and observed the stakes, “not a doubt of it; inches indeed; they have encroached feet—feet—if notyardson our property.”

He gave no audible sound, however, to his thoughts, until the party had reached the islet, which was connected with the mainland by a plank, then he turned to McLeod with the air of a man who has resolved to wage war to the knife for his rights. Le Rue, seeing his master in this mood, drew himself up, compressed his lips, and darkened his frown.

“The line of demarcation,” said Redding slowly, but with much decision of tone and manner, “runsexactlydown the centre of this stream and cutspreciselyacross the centre of this rock. Now, sir,” he turned abruptly here to look his adversary full in the face. In doing so his vision, passing over the shoulders of his enemy, encountered the bright face and astonished gaze of Flora McLeod, who had just come to let her father and brothers know that their evening meal awaited them.

Reginald Redding was struck dumb. Glancing round to see what had fascinated the gaze of the fur-trader, McLeod turned with a smile, and said:—

“My daughter Flora, Mister—ah!—I beg pardon—your name is, I think—”

“Redding,” murmured the fur-trader, with hesitation, for he had begun to doubt his own identity.

“Just so. Flo has come to tell us, Mr Redding, that supper is ready, so, if you will condescend to accept of our rough and ready hospitality, we shall be delighted. But, before going, pray let us finish this matter. You were about to say—”

“Oh, nothing,—nothing worth mentioning,” said Redding hurriedly, endeavouring to recover himself; “I merely—the fact is—that—a rock like this is so—so utterly insignificant that the idea of trespassing on it is quite absurd, quite out of—why, surely Icannotbe mistaken,” he added, lifting his cap, “this must be the young lady whom I had the pleasure of meeting on the road hither at a time when—”

“When your presence and aid were most opportune,” interrupted Flora, as she held out her hand with a gracious smile and a blush.

Why Flora blushed is best known to herself. The same may be said in regard to the fact that Reginald Redding felt rather awkward—though not naturally an awkward man—and looked rather sheepish as he took the hand timidly. It is also worthy of record that the touch of Flora’s hand sent a galvanic stream up Redding’s arm, which curled round his head, ran down his spine, and passed out into the rock at the extremities of his ten toes!

“Indeed!” exclaimed McLeod senior, while a peculiar expression crossed his swarthy countenance as if a new idea had hit him; “then, Mr Redding, I am your debtor; but come, let us to supper before it cools. I suppose that no more need be said about the boundary line. I have not been guilty of trespassing, it seems, on your Company’s reserves?”

“Not in the least,” answered the fur-trader promptly, with a glance at his man.

“Vraiment, non, cer’nly not!” exclaimed Le Rue emphatically, not a trace of scorn being now visible on his benign countenance.

Matters being thus amicably disposed of, the party adjourned to the hut, where they sat down to a substantial repast, the foundation of which was boiled bacon and tea; the superstructure, biscuits and butter.

Here François Le Rue met with a profound disappointment. He had rightly judged that, where the mistress dwelt, the maid must necessarily abide; accordingly, on entering the hut, he had the extreme satisfaction of obtaining a glance of grateful recognition from Elise’s bright eyes. But the sanguine trader had also counted on the pleasure of her company at supper in the kitchen of the establishment, while his master should sup with the McLeods in the parlour. In this he was mistaken. In such an out-of-the-way region the young Canadian girl was counted as much a companion as a servant, and while she performed the duties of attendant at the table in the hall, she also sat modestly down at the same table to partake of the evening meal. François, on the other hand, was told to go to the kitchen and make himself comfortable.

The kitchen was a little out-house, not unlike a gigantic dog-kennel, separated by a space of six feet or so from the principal dwelling.

Opening its door, Le Rue entered with a heavy heart, supposing that he should have to eat his supper in dreary solitude, “not dat I cares moch for dat,” thought he, as he raised the latch, “for I’s accostomed to solitairness; but ah! ven I tinks of—”

“Hooroo!” shouted a gruff voice, scattering at once his thoughts and his “solitairness.”

Le Rue started as he encountered the surprised gaze of a man, but, being in a crusty humour, he only exclaimed— “Hah!” and returned the gaze.

“Sure it’s you or yer ghost,” exclaimed the identical driver whom the two fur-traders had so lately assisted out of difficulties. “Give us yer fist, young man. Ah, then, it’s good luck is yer portion, Rooney. Didn’t I think to sit down to me supper in solitood, whin in comes like a vision the frind as was a frind indade to me and the ladies the other day. Come in, come in, sit ye down there; an’ ait till yer fit to bust. Och! but it’s mesilf is glad this night. There, putt off yer capote; if yer at all like me ye’ll not be fit to taste a morsel till yer in yer shirt sleeves. Howld—I’ll hang it on the peg for ’ee. Now thin, go to work. Don’t spare it. Faix, there’s plinty more where that came from, though there ain’t much variety here. It’s pig for breakfast, pig for dinner, an’ pig for supper—wid a slice o’ cowld pig at odd times whin yer extra hungry. An’ then ye’ll have to pig-in wid myself at night, for there’s only wan bed in this coolinairy mansion, not bein’ room to howld more! That’s yer sort—the tae’s hot, anyhow.”

There was no withstanding such a welcome as this. François Le Rue thawed instantly, and thereafter warmed up to intense cordiality while he plied his knife and fork on the “pig,” and quaffed the steaming “tae,” talking between mouthfuls as his voluble friend gave him opportunity.

An abrupt check, however, was put to the pleasant flow of his spirits when Rooney, having occasion to refer to “the ladies,” remarked in an enthusiastic tone that Elise was “a angel—nothin’ more nor less—only widout wings.”

The demon jealousy instantly fired the soul of the Canadian.

“Vat you knows about she?” he demanded, with suppressed emotion.

“Knows about her!” exclaimed Rooney, with increased enthusiasm, while Le Rue’s spirit dilated with increasing jealousy, “what do Inotknow about her, is the question. Sure I’ve knowed her iver since she was a purty little curly-hided child; I’ve knowed her goodness to her parients till the day of their death, an’ her gentleness in the time of sorrow, an’ her jollity in the time of joy, an’ her faithfulness to her mistress in adversity, an’ her gin’ral goodness at all times, blissin’s on her!”

François ceased devouring “pig,” and played with his knife, while he mentally, almost unconsciously, measured the number of inches that lay between the outside of Rooney’s chest and the core of his heart.

“You’se verai fond of her, it seems,” he said, with deep sarcasm.

“That’s just what I am,” replied Rooney, stuffing an enormous piece of bacon into his no less enormous mouth. “It’s raison I have too,” he added thickly, but quite audibly, “for she nursed my poor wife through a long illness, an’ it’s my belaif she wouldn’t ha’ bin alive this day but for the care and attintion she got from Elise.”

The demon fled horrified out at the key-hole—the window being shut—and Le Rue, feeling the deepest regard for Rooney, relieved his feelings with a sigh and more “pig.”

While the Irishman and Canadian were entertaining each other thus in the kitchen, the Highlanders and Englishman were no less cordial and busy in the hall. Rough and ready the hospitality indeed was, for the board was not only uncovered but unplaned, and the dishes were cracked and dinted—according to their nature; but the heartiness of the welcome, the solidity of the simple viands, the strength of appetite, and, above all, the presence of bright eyes and gentle spirits threw a luxurious halo round the humble apartment, in the light of which Reginald Redding revelled.

Tea,—the cup which cheers but does not inebriate,—was used at that board as if it had been brandy and water. The men not only drank it during the progress of the meal, but afterwards sat long over it, and dallied with it, and urged each other to “have some more” of it, and quaffed it to the health of absent friends, and told stories, and cut jokes, and sang songs over it, and replenished it with hot water to such an extent that it gradually changed its nature and became that harmless beverage loved by Frenchmen,eau sucré.

That it cheered was evident, for laughter was often loud and sometimes long. That it did not inebriate was equally clear, for the talk of the party was frequently grave as well as gay.

It was especially grave when, towards the end of the evening, McLeod senior, in answer to some allusion of his guest as to the beauties of Partridge Bay, became confidential, and told how he had once dwelt in that settlement for many years, in a happy home which he had specially built for himself, or rather, as he said, with a kindly glance at his pretty daughter, which he had built specially for his wife and child. How it had pleased God to take from him his dear partner before they had been long in the new house; how the failure of a friend had involved him in ruin, and compelled him to sell off all he had possessed and begin life anew with the scanty remnants of his fortune; how he had taken the advice of another friend, and come to Jenkins Creek to set up a saw-mill, having previously invested nearly all his funds in an order for goods from England, for the purpose of setting up a general store, as it was highly probable the country would go on prospering, and the demand for such a store become great; how he had had letters from his youngest son, Roderick,—a lad of nineteen who had been educated in the “old country,”—telling him that the goods had been bought and shipped in theBetsyof Plymouth, and how that he, Roderick, intended to take passage in the same ship the week following, and join his father and brothers in their new sphere of labour; how that, sometimes, he felt depressed by the sudden reverse of fortune, but was always cheered and raised up again by his daughter Flo, who had a wonderful way—somewhat like her mother—of inducing him, when things looked darkest, to turn his eyes to the source of all light, and comfort, and hope, and prosperity.

You may be sure that Reginald Redding listened to all this with the deepest interest and sympathy, for as he glanced at Flora’s speaking countenance—and he did glance at it pretty frequently—he observed new beauty in her expression, and bright tear-drops in her eyes.

“Ah, Flo,” said her father, when he had finished, “no one has such good cause to regret the loss of our old home as yourself, for I don’t think Mr Gambart could have planned it without your aid.”

“What!” exclaimed Redding, with a look of sudden surprise, “what was the name of your place in Partridge Bay?”

“I gave it a Highland name,” said McLeod, with a sad smile, “after a place in Scotland that once belonged to my mother’s family,—Loch Dhu.”

For a moment or two the young fur-trader remained speechless. He looked first at Flora and then at her father, and after that at her brothers, without being able to make up his mind how to act. He now understood the reason of Gambart’s silence as to the former owners of Loch Dhu, and he would have given worlds at that moment if he had never seen or heard of the place, for it seemed such a heartless position to be placed in—the fortunate owner of the lovely spot, over the loss of which Flora and her family evidently mourned so deeply. He could not bear the thought of having to reveal the truth; still less could he bear the thought of concealing it. He was therefore about to make the disagreeable confession, when the thoughts of the whole party were suddenly diverted to another channel, by the opening of the door and the entrance of one of those gaunt sons of the forest who were wont to hang on the skirts of civilisation, as it advanced to wrest from them their native wilderness.

The Indian stalked into the room, handed a dirty piece of folded paper to McLeod, and sat down beside the fire, after the fashion of his race, in solemn silence.

Chapter Six.Out in the Snow.When Jonas Bellew set off in search of the rumoured wreck, as related in a previous chapter, he passed the Cliff Fort without calling there, partly because he did not wish to waste time, and partly because he had no desire to hold converse at that time with Mr Smart, who, he rightly suspected, must have shared in Redding’s suspicions as to the intentions of the McLeods.Making a straight cut, therefore, across the bay in front of the fur-trading establishment, on ice that had not yet been floated away, he gained the land below the fort and continued his journey down the coast. That night he slept in the snow.Let not the reader entertain the mistaken idea that such a sleeping-place was either cold, wet, or uncomfortable. It was the reverse of all that, being warm, dry, and cosy. The making of this bed we record here, for the benefit of housemaids, and all whom it may concern.First of all, the sturdy trapper walked along the coast, sometimes on snow-shoes when fields of snow-covered ice projected out to sea; at other times on foot, with the snow-shoes slung over his back, when long stretches of sand or shingly beach, from which the ice had been swept away, presented themselves. This process of progression he continued till night began to close upon him. Then he bethought him of encamping, and retired to the neighbouring woods for the purpose.The woods referred to consisted chiefly of pines, which fringed the base of the precipitous hills by which that part of the Gulf of Saint Lawrence is bordered. Here he selected the largest tree he could find, and threw down his bundle of food and blankets under the flat spreading branches thereof. Resting one of his snow-shoes against the stem of the tree, he proceeded to dig a huge hole in the snow, using his other snow-shoe as a shovel. The operation cost him much labour, for he had to dig completely down to the ground, and the snow in the woods was still between three and four feet deep. When a hole of ten feet long by five broad was thus cleared to the bottom, the natural walls were raised by the snow thrown out, to a total height of about six feet. This was Bellew’s bedchamber. The spreading pine-branches overhead were its admirable roof. Next, the trapper cut down a young pine, with the tender branches of which he covered the floor of his chamber to a depth of ten or twelve inches. This was his mattress, and a soft, warm, elastic one it was, as the writer of this narrative can testify from personal experience. The head of the mattress rested against the stem of the pine tree, and a convenient root thereof served Bellew for a pillow. At the foot of the bed he had left the floor of his chamber uncovered; this was his fireplace, and in the course of ten minutes or so he cut down and chopped into billets enough of dry wood to fill it with materials for a splendid fire. These being arranged, with a core of dry moss and broken twigs in the centre, the patient man struck a light by means of flint, steel, and tinder, and applied it. While the first few tongues of fire were crackling in the core of moss, he spread a thick blanket on his bed, and then stood up leisurely to fill his pipe and dreamily to watch the kindling of the fire.And this was a sight worth watching, for the change in the aspect of affairs was little short of miraculous. Before the flames shot forth, Jonas Bellew, looking over the edge of a black hole that was disagreeably suggestive of a tomb, could dimly perceive a stretch of cold, grey, ghostly forest, through the openings of which hummocks of ice could be seen floating away over the black waters of the sea. The little starlight that prevailed only served to render darkness visible, and thus to increase the desolate aspect of the scene. But when the ruddy flames began to shoot forth and tip with a warm glow the nearest projections, they brought out in startling prominence the point of Bellew’s nose and the bowl of his little pipe. Continuing to gain strength they seemed to weaken the force of distant objects in proportion as they intensified those that were near. The pale woods and dark waters outside deepened into invisible black, while the snow-walls of Bellew’s chamber glowed as if on fire, and sparkled as if set with diamonds. The tree stem became a ruddy column, with Bellew’s shadow lying black as ink against it, and the branches above became like a red-hot roof.It may, perhaps, be supposed that the snow-walls melted under this ordeal; nothing of the sort. Their tendency to do so was checked effectually, not only by a sharp frost, but by the solid backing of snow behind them; and the little that did give way in close proximity to the fire ran unobtrusively down to the earth and crept away under the snow towards the sea, for Bellew had made his camp with the fire at its lower end, so that not a drop of water could by any means reach the spot whereon he lay.Having stuffed his little tin can or kettle with snow, he put this on the fire to melt, and then spread out his bacon and biscuit, and sugar and tea, all of which being in course of time prepared, he sat down to enjoy himself, and felt, as well as looked, supremely happy.Then Jonas Bellew went on his knees and prayed—for he was one of those men who do not think it unmanly to remember the Giver of all that they enjoy—and thereafter he rolled himself in his blanket, pillowed his head on the tree-root, and sank into profound repose—such repose as is known only to healthy infants and hard-working men and women. Little by little the fire burnt low, the ruddy lights grew dim, the pale lights reappeared, and the encampment resumed its tomb-like appearance until the break of another day gave it a new aspect and caused Jonas Bellew to rise, yawn, shake the hoar-frost from his blanket, pack up his traps, and resume his journey.

When Jonas Bellew set off in search of the rumoured wreck, as related in a previous chapter, he passed the Cliff Fort without calling there, partly because he did not wish to waste time, and partly because he had no desire to hold converse at that time with Mr Smart, who, he rightly suspected, must have shared in Redding’s suspicions as to the intentions of the McLeods.

Making a straight cut, therefore, across the bay in front of the fur-trading establishment, on ice that had not yet been floated away, he gained the land below the fort and continued his journey down the coast. That night he slept in the snow.

Let not the reader entertain the mistaken idea that such a sleeping-place was either cold, wet, or uncomfortable. It was the reverse of all that, being warm, dry, and cosy. The making of this bed we record here, for the benefit of housemaids, and all whom it may concern.

First of all, the sturdy trapper walked along the coast, sometimes on snow-shoes when fields of snow-covered ice projected out to sea; at other times on foot, with the snow-shoes slung over his back, when long stretches of sand or shingly beach, from which the ice had been swept away, presented themselves. This process of progression he continued till night began to close upon him. Then he bethought him of encamping, and retired to the neighbouring woods for the purpose.

The woods referred to consisted chiefly of pines, which fringed the base of the precipitous hills by which that part of the Gulf of Saint Lawrence is bordered. Here he selected the largest tree he could find, and threw down his bundle of food and blankets under the flat spreading branches thereof. Resting one of his snow-shoes against the stem of the tree, he proceeded to dig a huge hole in the snow, using his other snow-shoe as a shovel. The operation cost him much labour, for he had to dig completely down to the ground, and the snow in the woods was still between three and four feet deep. When a hole of ten feet long by five broad was thus cleared to the bottom, the natural walls were raised by the snow thrown out, to a total height of about six feet. This was Bellew’s bedchamber. The spreading pine-branches overhead were its admirable roof. Next, the trapper cut down a young pine, with the tender branches of which he covered the floor of his chamber to a depth of ten or twelve inches. This was his mattress, and a soft, warm, elastic one it was, as the writer of this narrative can testify from personal experience. The head of the mattress rested against the stem of the pine tree, and a convenient root thereof served Bellew for a pillow. At the foot of the bed he had left the floor of his chamber uncovered; this was his fireplace, and in the course of ten minutes or so he cut down and chopped into billets enough of dry wood to fill it with materials for a splendid fire. These being arranged, with a core of dry moss and broken twigs in the centre, the patient man struck a light by means of flint, steel, and tinder, and applied it. While the first few tongues of fire were crackling in the core of moss, he spread a thick blanket on his bed, and then stood up leisurely to fill his pipe and dreamily to watch the kindling of the fire.

And this was a sight worth watching, for the change in the aspect of affairs was little short of miraculous. Before the flames shot forth, Jonas Bellew, looking over the edge of a black hole that was disagreeably suggestive of a tomb, could dimly perceive a stretch of cold, grey, ghostly forest, through the openings of which hummocks of ice could be seen floating away over the black waters of the sea. The little starlight that prevailed only served to render darkness visible, and thus to increase the desolate aspect of the scene. But when the ruddy flames began to shoot forth and tip with a warm glow the nearest projections, they brought out in startling prominence the point of Bellew’s nose and the bowl of his little pipe. Continuing to gain strength they seemed to weaken the force of distant objects in proportion as they intensified those that were near. The pale woods and dark waters outside deepened into invisible black, while the snow-walls of Bellew’s chamber glowed as if on fire, and sparkled as if set with diamonds. The tree stem became a ruddy column, with Bellew’s shadow lying black as ink against it, and the branches above became like a red-hot roof.

It may, perhaps, be supposed that the snow-walls melted under this ordeal; nothing of the sort. Their tendency to do so was checked effectually, not only by a sharp frost, but by the solid backing of snow behind them; and the little that did give way in close proximity to the fire ran unobtrusively down to the earth and crept away under the snow towards the sea, for Bellew had made his camp with the fire at its lower end, so that not a drop of water could by any means reach the spot whereon he lay.

Having stuffed his little tin can or kettle with snow, he put this on the fire to melt, and then spread out his bacon and biscuit, and sugar and tea, all of which being in course of time prepared, he sat down to enjoy himself, and felt, as well as looked, supremely happy.

Then Jonas Bellew went on his knees and prayed—for he was one of those men who do not think it unmanly to remember the Giver of all that they enjoy—and thereafter he rolled himself in his blanket, pillowed his head on the tree-root, and sank into profound repose—such repose as is known only to healthy infants and hard-working men and women. Little by little the fire burnt low, the ruddy lights grew dim, the pale lights reappeared, and the encampment resumed its tomb-like appearance until the break of another day gave it a new aspect and caused Jonas Bellew to rise, yawn, shake the hoar-frost from his blanket, pack up his traps, and resume his journey.

Chapter Seven.A Sad Discovery.A wreck on a rocky shore is at all times a dreary sight, but especially so when the shore is that of an uninhabited land, and when the rocks as well as the wreck are fringed with snow-wreaths and cumbered with ice.Some such thoughts probably filled the mind of the trapper when, on the afternoon of the day whose dawn we have mentioned, he stood beside the wreck of what had once been a full-rigged ship and gazed intently on the scene of desolation.Life and death were powerfully suggested to him. Many a time had he seen such a craft breasting the waves of the broad Saint Lawrence, when every dip of the bow, every bend of the taper masts, every rattle of the ropes, and every mellow shout of the seamen, told of vigorous life and energy; and now, the broken masts and yards tipped and fringed with snow-wreaths, the shattered stern, out of which the cargo had been evidently washed long ago, the decks crushed down with snow, the bulged sides, the bottom pierced by rocks, the bowsprit burst to shivers by the opposing cliff, the pendant and motionless cordage, even the slight ripple of the sleeping sea, which deepened rather than broke the prevailing silence, all told eloquently of death,—death, perchance to passengers and crew, at all events to sanguine hopes and prospects. Nevertheless there was much life connected with that death-like scene, as the sequel of our tale will show.The trapper, although fond of moralising, was not prone to indulge in sentiment when circumstances called him to action. He had come suddenly in sight of the wreck on turning the point of the frowning cliff where the gallant ship had met her doom, and stood only for a few seconds to gaze sadly on the scene.Hastening forward he proceeded at once to make a thorough survey of the vessel.First he went to the stern to ascertain, if possible, her name. The greater part of the stern had, as we have said, been torn away; but, after careful search, he discovered a piece of wood on which he could plainly trace portions of the lettersBandEandT. The remainder of the word, whatever it was, had been completely erased.Bellew did not at first climb on board the ship, because from her general aspect he knew full well that there could be no survivor in her, besides, through the yawning stern he could see nearly the whole of the interior.His next step was to search the neighbourhood for tracks, in order to see whether or not the wreck had been lately visited by human beings. This search resulted in discoveries which perplexed him greatly, for not only did he find numerous footprints which crossed each other in various directions, but he knew from their appearance that these had been recently made, and that they were those of white men as well as red; some of them showing the prints of shoes, while others displayed the marks of moccasins.Had Bellew discovered one or two tracks made by men of the forest like himself, his knowledge of wood-craft would have enabled him at once to decide which way they had come and whither they had gone; but, with at least a dozen meandering tracks radiating from the ship in all directions, as well towards the sea as the land, he felt himself puzzled. He knew well enough that they were too fresh to be those of the wrecked crew, unless indeed the crew had remained by the ship; but in that case there would have been evidences of an encampment of some sort, such as fittings-up on board, or huts on shore. He followed the tracks that led to the sea and found that they terminated abruptly, as if those who had made them had plunged into the water and drowned themselves. Before following up those that went landward he returned to the ship and clambered on board, but found nothing to reward him for his pains. The sea had swept the hold fore and aft so completely that nothing whatever was left.These investigations did not take up much time. The trapper, after one or two circuits, found the spot where the footsteps became disentangled from the maze of individual tracks, and led, not along the shore as he had supposed they would, but up into a narrow gorge; and now he learned that the tracks of what appeared a multitude of people had been made by the running to and fro of not more than a dozen men, six of whom were natives. Thinking it probable that the party could not be far distant, for the gorge up which they had proceeded seemed of very limited extent, the trapper pushed forward with increasing expectation, not unmingled with anxiety.Turning the point of a projecting cliff he came suddenly on a sight that filled him with sadness. It was the mouldering remains of a human being—one who had been a seaman, to judge from the garments which covered him. One glance sufficed to show the trapper that his services there were not required. He also observed that the fresh tracks which he had been following circled round the body of the seaman and then led straight on.Following these, Bellew soon came to an open circular space at the head of the gorge, where the appearance of smoke, rising from among the trees, arrested his attention. In a few minutes he had reached the spot whence it issued, and there to his surprise found Mr Bob Smart with five of his men and several Indians standing in solemn silence round something on the ground that appeared to rivet their attention. Some of the men looked up as Bellew approached and nodded to him, for the trapper was well-known in the district; they also moved aside and let him pass.“What’s wrong, Mr Smart?” he asked, on coming up.The fur-trader pointed to the ground, on which lay a group of men, who, at a first glance, appeared to be dying. One in particular, a youth, seemed to be in the very last stage of exhaustion. Smart had just risen from his side after administering a cup of hot tea, when the trapper appeared.“I fear he won’t last long,” said Smart, turning to Bellew, with a shake of his head.“What have you been givin’ him?” asked Bellew, stooping and feeling his pulse.“Just a cup of tea,” replied Smart; “I have unfortunately nothing better. We only heard of the wreck yesterday, and came down in our boat in such haste that we forgot spirits. Besides, I counted on bringing whoever I should find up to the fort without delay, but although we may move most of these poor fellows, I doubt much that we daren’t movehim.”This was said in a whisper, for the poor fellows referred to, although unable to rise, lay listening eagerly to every word that was spoken. There were six of them—one a negro—all terribly emaciated, and more or less badly frost-bitten. They formed the remnant of a crew of twenty-five, many of whom, after suffering dreadfully from hunger and frost-bites, had wandered away into the woods, and in a half delirious state, had perished.“You have hot water, I see,” said the trapper, hastily unfastening his pack, “fetch some.”Bob Smart promptly and gladly obeyed, for he saw that Bellew was a man of action, and appeared to know what to do.“You’re right, Mr Smart,” said Bellew, as he poured a little of the contents of a bottle into the tin pannikin that had served him for a tea-cup the night before, “this poor lad couldn’t stand moving just now. Fortunately I’ve brought some spirits with me. It will start fresh life in him if he’s not too far gone already. Here, sir,” he continued, in a louder tone, “let me put this to your lips.”The youth opened a pair of brilliant black eyes and gazed earnestly at the speaker, then smiled faintly and sipped the offered beverage.As might have been expected, he at once revived a little under its influence.“There, that’s enough just now; it don’t do to take much at a time. I’ll give ’ee somethin’ else in a minute,” said Bellew, as he went from one to another and administered a teaspoonful or two to each.They were very grateful, and said so in words more or less emphatic. One of them, indeed, who appeared to have once been a jovial seaman, intimated that he would be glad to take as many more teaspoonfuls of “that same” as Bellew chose to administer! but the trapper, paying no attention to the suggestion, proceeded to open his store of provisions and to concoct, in his tin tea-kettle, a species of thin soup. While this was simmering, he began to remove the blankets with which Bob Smart had covered the unfortunate men.“Don’t you think,” said Bob, “that it would be well to leave their wraps alone till we get them up to the fort? They’re badly bitten, and I know little about dressing sores. By the time we get there Mr Redding will probably have returned from Partridge Bay, and he’s more than half a a doctor, I believe.”“Nevertheless I’ll have a look,” said Bellew, with a smile, “for I’m a bit of a doctor myself in such matters,—about a quarter of one, if I may say so.”Without further parley the trapper laid bare their sores, and truly the sad sight fully justified Smart’s remark that the poor fellows were badly bitten. One of them, the seaman above referred to, whom his comrades styled Ned, had only lost the ends of one or two toes and the forefinger of his left hand, but some of the others had been so severely frost-bitten in their feet that all the toes were rotting off; the negro in particular had lost his left foot, while the heel-bone of the other was exposed to the extent of nearly an inch, and all the toes were gone. (We describe here, from memory, what we have actually seen.)In perfect silence, but with a despatch that would have done credit to hospital training, the trapper removed the dead flesh, dressed the sores, applied poultices of certain herbs gathered in the woods, and bandaged them up. This done, he served out the thin soup, with another small allowance of spirits and hot water, after which, with the able assistance of Bob Smart and his men, he wrapped them up in their blankets and made arrangements for having them conveyed to the boat which had been pulled into a convenient creek further down the shore than the wreck.Strange to say, the youth who appeared to be dying was the least injured by frost-bites of the party, his fingers and face being untouched, and only a portion of the skin of his feet damaged; but this was explained by the seaman, Ned, who, on hearing Bellew’s expression of surprise, said, with a touch of feeling:—“It’s not the frost as damaged him, sir, it’s the water an’ the rocks. W’en we was wrecked, sir,—now three weeks ago, or thereby,—we’d ableeged to send a hawser ashore, an’ not one of us could swim, from the cap’n to the cabin-boy, so Mister McLeod he wolunteered to—”“Mister who?” demanded Bellew hastily.“Mister McLeod.”“What was your ship’s name?”“TheBetsy, sir.”“From what port?”“Plymouth.”“Ho ho! well, go on.”“Well, as I was a-sayin’, sir, Mister McLeod, who’s as bold as a lion, he wolunteered to swim ashore wi’ a line, an’ swim he did, though the sea was rollin’ in on the cliffs like the Falls o’ Niagery,—which I’m told lie somewhere in these latitudes,—leastwise they’re putt down in all the charts so. We tried for to dissuade him at first, but when the starn o’ the ship was tore away, and the cargo began to wash out, we all saw that it was neck or nothin’, so we let him go. For a time he swam like a good ’un, but when he’d bin dashed agin’ the cliffs two or three times an’ washed back again among the wreck of spars, cargo, and riggin’, we thought it was all over with all of us. Hows’ever we wasn’t forsooken at the eleventh hour, for a wave all of a sudden washed him high and dry on a ledge of rock, an’ he stood up and waved his hand and then fell down in a swound. Then we thought again it was all up with us, for every wave went roarin’ up to young Mister McLeod, as if it wor mad to lose him, and one or two of ’em even sent the foam washin’ in about his legs. Well, sir, the last one that did that seemed to bring him to, for as it washed over his face he jumped up and held on to the rocks like a limpet. Then he got a little higher on the cliff, and when we saw he was looking out to us we made signs to him that a hawser was made fast to the line, an’ all ready. He understood us an’ began to haul away on the line, but we could see that he had bin badly hurt from the way he stopped from time to time to git breath, and rested his head on a big rock that rose at his side like a great capstan. Hows’ever, he got the hawser ashore at last, an’ made it fast round the big rock, an’ so by means of that, an’ the blessin’ o’ Providence, we all got ashore. P’r’aps,” added Ned thoughtfully, “it might have bin as well if some of us hadn’t—hows’ever, we wasn’t to know that at the time, you understand, sir.”It must not be supposed that Ned said all this in the hearty tones that were peculiar to his former self. The poor fellow could only utter it sentence by sentence in a weak voice, which was strengthened occasionally by a sip from “that same” beverage which had first awakened his admiration. Meanwhile the object of his remarks had fallen asleep.“Now, Mister Smart,” said Bellew, taking the fur-trader aside, “from all that I have heard and seen it is clear to me that this wreck is the vessel in which the McLeods of Jenkins Creek had shipped their property from England, and that this youth is Roderick, the youngest son of the family. I’ve bin helping the McLeods of late with their noo saw-mill, and I’ve heard the father talking sometimes with his sons about theBetsyof Plymouth and their brother Roderick.”At another time Bob Smart would not have been at all sorry to hear that the interloping McLeods had lost all their property, but now he was filled with pity, and asked Jonas Bellew with much anxiety what he thought was best to be done.“The best thing to do,” said Bellew, “is to carry these men to the boat and have them up to the Cliff Fort without delay.”“We’ll set about it at once. You’ll go with us, I suppose.”“No, I’ll remain behind and take care of young McLeod. In his present state it would likely cost him his life to move him.”“Then I’ll leave some of my men with you.”“Not needful,” replied the trapper, “you know I’m used to bein’ alone an’ managin’ things for myself. After you get them up you may send down a couple of men with some provisions and their hatchets. For to-night I can make the poor fellow all snug with the tarpaulin of your boat.”In accordance with these plans the shipwrecked men were sent up to the Cliff Fort. Roderick McLeod was sheltered under a tarpaulin tent and carefully tended by Bellew, and one of Smart’s most active Indians was despatched with a pencil-note to Jenkins Creek.It was this note which interrupted the conversation between Reginald Redding and the elder McLeod at a somewhat critical moment, and this note, as the reader may easily believe, threw the whole establishment into sudden consternation.

A wreck on a rocky shore is at all times a dreary sight, but especially so when the shore is that of an uninhabited land, and when the rocks as well as the wreck are fringed with snow-wreaths and cumbered with ice.

Some such thoughts probably filled the mind of the trapper when, on the afternoon of the day whose dawn we have mentioned, he stood beside the wreck of what had once been a full-rigged ship and gazed intently on the scene of desolation.

Life and death were powerfully suggested to him. Many a time had he seen such a craft breasting the waves of the broad Saint Lawrence, when every dip of the bow, every bend of the taper masts, every rattle of the ropes, and every mellow shout of the seamen, told of vigorous life and energy; and now, the broken masts and yards tipped and fringed with snow-wreaths, the shattered stern, out of which the cargo had been evidently washed long ago, the decks crushed down with snow, the bulged sides, the bottom pierced by rocks, the bowsprit burst to shivers by the opposing cliff, the pendant and motionless cordage, even the slight ripple of the sleeping sea, which deepened rather than broke the prevailing silence, all told eloquently of death,—death, perchance to passengers and crew, at all events to sanguine hopes and prospects. Nevertheless there was much life connected with that death-like scene, as the sequel of our tale will show.

The trapper, although fond of moralising, was not prone to indulge in sentiment when circumstances called him to action. He had come suddenly in sight of the wreck on turning the point of the frowning cliff where the gallant ship had met her doom, and stood only for a few seconds to gaze sadly on the scene.

Hastening forward he proceeded at once to make a thorough survey of the vessel.

First he went to the stern to ascertain, if possible, her name. The greater part of the stern had, as we have said, been torn away; but, after careful search, he discovered a piece of wood on which he could plainly trace portions of the lettersBandEandT. The remainder of the word, whatever it was, had been completely erased.

Bellew did not at first climb on board the ship, because from her general aspect he knew full well that there could be no survivor in her, besides, through the yawning stern he could see nearly the whole of the interior.

His next step was to search the neighbourhood for tracks, in order to see whether or not the wreck had been lately visited by human beings. This search resulted in discoveries which perplexed him greatly, for not only did he find numerous footprints which crossed each other in various directions, but he knew from their appearance that these had been recently made, and that they were those of white men as well as red; some of them showing the prints of shoes, while others displayed the marks of moccasins.

Had Bellew discovered one or two tracks made by men of the forest like himself, his knowledge of wood-craft would have enabled him at once to decide which way they had come and whither they had gone; but, with at least a dozen meandering tracks radiating from the ship in all directions, as well towards the sea as the land, he felt himself puzzled. He knew well enough that they were too fresh to be those of the wrecked crew, unless indeed the crew had remained by the ship; but in that case there would have been evidences of an encampment of some sort, such as fittings-up on board, or huts on shore. He followed the tracks that led to the sea and found that they terminated abruptly, as if those who had made them had plunged into the water and drowned themselves. Before following up those that went landward he returned to the ship and clambered on board, but found nothing to reward him for his pains. The sea had swept the hold fore and aft so completely that nothing whatever was left.

These investigations did not take up much time. The trapper, after one or two circuits, found the spot where the footsteps became disentangled from the maze of individual tracks, and led, not along the shore as he had supposed they would, but up into a narrow gorge; and now he learned that the tracks of what appeared a multitude of people had been made by the running to and fro of not more than a dozen men, six of whom were natives. Thinking it probable that the party could not be far distant, for the gorge up which they had proceeded seemed of very limited extent, the trapper pushed forward with increasing expectation, not unmingled with anxiety.

Turning the point of a projecting cliff he came suddenly on a sight that filled him with sadness. It was the mouldering remains of a human being—one who had been a seaman, to judge from the garments which covered him. One glance sufficed to show the trapper that his services there were not required. He also observed that the fresh tracks which he had been following circled round the body of the seaman and then led straight on.

Following these, Bellew soon came to an open circular space at the head of the gorge, where the appearance of smoke, rising from among the trees, arrested his attention. In a few minutes he had reached the spot whence it issued, and there to his surprise found Mr Bob Smart with five of his men and several Indians standing in solemn silence round something on the ground that appeared to rivet their attention. Some of the men looked up as Bellew approached and nodded to him, for the trapper was well-known in the district; they also moved aside and let him pass.

“What’s wrong, Mr Smart?” he asked, on coming up.

The fur-trader pointed to the ground, on which lay a group of men, who, at a first glance, appeared to be dying. One in particular, a youth, seemed to be in the very last stage of exhaustion. Smart had just risen from his side after administering a cup of hot tea, when the trapper appeared.

“I fear he won’t last long,” said Smart, turning to Bellew, with a shake of his head.

“What have you been givin’ him?” asked Bellew, stooping and feeling his pulse.

“Just a cup of tea,” replied Smart; “I have unfortunately nothing better. We only heard of the wreck yesterday, and came down in our boat in such haste that we forgot spirits. Besides, I counted on bringing whoever I should find up to the fort without delay, but although we may move most of these poor fellows, I doubt much that we daren’t movehim.”

This was said in a whisper, for the poor fellows referred to, although unable to rise, lay listening eagerly to every word that was spoken. There were six of them—one a negro—all terribly emaciated, and more or less badly frost-bitten. They formed the remnant of a crew of twenty-five, many of whom, after suffering dreadfully from hunger and frost-bites, had wandered away into the woods, and in a half delirious state, had perished.

“You have hot water, I see,” said the trapper, hastily unfastening his pack, “fetch some.”

Bob Smart promptly and gladly obeyed, for he saw that Bellew was a man of action, and appeared to know what to do.

“You’re right, Mr Smart,” said Bellew, as he poured a little of the contents of a bottle into the tin pannikin that had served him for a tea-cup the night before, “this poor lad couldn’t stand moving just now. Fortunately I’ve brought some spirits with me. It will start fresh life in him if he’s not too far gone already. Here, sir,” he continued, in a louder tone, “let me put this to your lips.”

The youth opened a pair of brilliant black eyes and gazed earnestly at the speaker, then smiled faintly and sipped the offered beverage.

As might have been expected, he at once revived a little under its influence.

“There, that’s enough just now; it don’t do to take much at a time. I’ll give ’ee somethin’ else in a minute,” said Bellew, as he went from one to another and administered a teaspoonful or two to each.

They were very grateful, and said so in words more or less emphatic. One of them, indeed, who appeared to have once been a jovial seaman, intimated that he would be glad to take as many more teaspoonfuls of “that same” as Bellew chose to administer! but the trapper, paying no attention to the suggestion, proceeded to open his store of provisions and to concoct, in his tin tea-kettle, a species of thin soup. While this was simmering, he began to remove the blankets with which Bob Smart had covered the unfortunate men.

“Don’t you think,” said Bob, “that it would be well to leave their wraps alone till we get them up to the fort? They’re badly bitten, and I know little about dressing sores. By the time we get there Mr Redding will probably have returned from Partridge Bay, and he’s more than half a a doctor, I believe.”

“Nevertheless I’ll have a look,” said Bellew, with a smile, “for I’m a bit of a doctor myself in such matters,—about a quarter of one, if I may say so.”

Without further parley the trapper laid bare their sores, and truly the sad sight fully justified Smart’s remark that the poor fellows were badly bitten. One of them, the seaman above referred to, whom his comrades styled Ned, had only lost the ends of one or two toes and the forefinger of his left hand, but some of the others had been so severely frost-bitten in their feet that all the toes were rotting off; the negro in particular had lost his left foot, while the heel-bone of the other was exposed to the extent of nearly an inch, and all the toes were gone. (We describe here, from memory, what we have actually seen.)

In perfect silence, but with a despatch that would have done credit to hospital training, the trapper removed the dead flesh, dressed the sores, applied poultices of certain herbs gathered in the woods, and bandaged them up. This done, he served out the thin soup, with another small allowance of spirits and hot water, after which, with the able assistance of Bob Smart and his men, he wrapped them up in their blankets and made arrangements for having them conveyed to the boat which had been pulled into a convenient creek further down the shore than the wreck.

Strange to say, the youth who appeared to be dying was the least injured by frost-bites of the party, his fingers and face being untouched, and only a portion of the skin of his feet damaged; but this was explained by the seaman, Ned, who, on hearing Bellew’s expression of surprise, said, with a touch of feeling:—

“It’s not the frost as damaged him, sir, it’s the water an’ the rocks. W’en we was wrecked, sir,—now three weeks ago, or thereby,—we’d ableeged to send a hawser ashore, an’ not one of us could swim, from the cap’n to the cabin-boy, so Mister McLeod he wolunteered to—”

“Mister who?” demanded Bellew hastily.

“Mister McLeod.”

“What was your ship’s name?”

“TheBetsy, sir.”

“From what port?”

“Plymouth.”

“Ho ho! well, go on.”

“Well, as I was a-sayin’, sir, Mister McLeod, who’s as bold as a lion, he wolunteered to swim ashore wi’ a line, an’ swim he did, though the sea was rollin’ in on the cliffs like the Falls o’ Niagery,—which I’m told lie somewhere in these latitudes,—leastwise they’re putt down in all the charts so. We tried for to dissuade him at first, but when the starn o’ the ship was tore away, and the cargo began to wash out, we all saw that it was neck or nothin’, so we let him go. For a time he swam like a good ’un, but when he’d bin dashed agin’ the cliffs two or three times an’ washed back again among the wreck of spars, cargo, and riggin’, we thought it was all over with all of us. Hows’ever we wasn’t forsooken at the eleventh hour, for a wave all of a sudden washed him high and dry on a ledge of rock, an’ he stood up and waved his hand and then fell down in a swound. Then we thought again it was all up with us, for every wave went roarin’ up to young Mister McLeod, as if it wor mad to lose him, and one or two of ’em even sent the foam washin’ in about his legs. Well, sir, the last one that did that seemed to bring him to, for as it washed over his face he jumped up and held on to the rocks like a limpet. Then he got a little higher on the cliff, and when we saw he was looking out to us we made signs to him that a hawser was made fast to the line, an’ all ready. He understood us an’ began to haul away on the line, but we could see that he had bin badly hurt from the way he stopped from time to time to git breath, and rested his head on a big rock that rose at his side like a great capstan. Hows’ever, he got the hawser ashore at last, an’ made it fast round the big rock, an’ so by means of that, an’ the blessin’ o’ Providence, we all got ashore. P’r’aps,” added Ned thoughtfully, “it might have bin as well if some of us hadn’t—hows’ever, we wasn’t to know that at the time, you understand, sir.”

It must not be supposed that Ned said all this in the hearty tones that were peculiar to his former self. The poor fellow could only utter it sentence by sentence in a weak voice, which was strengthened occasionally by a sip from “that same” beverage which had first awakened his admiration. Meanwhile the object of his remarks had fallen asleep.

“Now, Mister Smart,” said Bellew, taking the fur-trader aside, “from all that I have heard and seen it is clear to me that this wreck is the vessel in which the McLeods of Jenkins Creek had shipped their property from England, and that this youth is Roderick, the youngest son of the family. I’ve bin helping the McLeods of late with their noo saw-mill, and I’ve heard the father talking sometimes with his sons about theBetsyof Plymouth and their brother Roderick.”

At another time Bob Smart would not have been at all sorry to hear that the interloping McLeods had lost all their property, but now he was filled with pity, and asked Jonas Bellew with much anxiety what he thought was best to be done.

“The best thing to do,” said Bellew, “is to carry these men to the boat and have them up to the Cliff Fort without delay.”

“We’ll set about it at once. You’ll go with us, I suppose.”

“No, I’ll remain behind and take care of young McLeod. In his present state it would likely cost him his life to move him.”

“Then I’ll leave some of my men with you.”

“Not needful,” replied the trapper, “you know I’m used to bein’ alone an’ managin’ things for myself. After you get them up you may send down a couple of men with some provisions and their hatchets. For to-night I can make the poor fellow all snug with the tarpaulin of your boat.”

In accordance with these plans the shipwrecked men were sent up to the Cliff Fort. Roderick McLeod was sheltered under a tarpaulin tent and carefully tended by Bellew, and one of Smart’s most active Indians was despatched with a pencil-note to Jenkins Creek.

It was this note which interrupted the conversation between Reginald Redding and the elder McLeod at a somewhat critical moment, and this note, as the reader may easily believe, threw the whole establishment into sudden consternation.

Chapter Eight.Shifting Winds.Immediately on receipt of the note referred to, vigorous preparations were made to convey relief to Roderick McLeod. Such provisions as the party at Jenkins Creek could muster were packed into the smallest possible space, because the boat, or cobble, which was to convey them down the gulf was very small—scarcely large enough to hold the party which meant to embark in it. This party consisted of McLeod senior, Kenneth, and Flora, it being arranged that Ian and Rooney should remain to prosecute, as well as to guard, the works at the Creek.Seeing that there was so little room to spare in the boat, Reginald Redding decided to hasten down on foot to the Cliff Fort, in order to see to the comfort of the wrecked men who had been sent there. He, however, offered the rescue party the services of his man, Le Rue, an offer which was accepted all the more readily that the Canadian possessed some knowledge of the coast.It was very dark when they started, but, fortunately, calm. McLeod had resolved to travel night and day, if the weather permitted, until he should reach the scene of the wreck, and to take snatches of rest if possible in the boat.There were only two oars in the boat, so that one of its crew was always idle. This, however, proved to be rather an advantage, for, by affording frequent relief to each rower, it saved the strength of all, and at the same time enabled them to relieve the tedium of the journey to poor Flora.At first they proceeded along under the deep shade of the ghost-like cliffs in unbroken silence, the mind of each no doubt being busy with the wreck of their last remnant of fortune, as well as with the dangerous condition in which the youthful Roderick lay; but as the dawn of day approached they began to talk a little, and when the sun arose its gladdening beams appeared to carry hope to each breast, inducing an almost cheerful state of mind. In the case of François Le Rue, the influence of sunshine was so powerful that a feeling of sympathy and respect for the McLeods in the calamity which had overtaken them alone restrained him from breaking out into song!“Father,” said Flora, as her sire, wearied by a long spell at the bow oar, resigned his seat to Kenneth, and sat down beside her, “that glorious light brings to my remembrance a very sweet verse, ‘Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.’”“True, true, Flo,” returned her father, “I wish I had the simple faith that you seem to possess, but I haven’t, so there’s no use in pretending to it. This,” he added bitterly, “seems only a pure and unmitigated disaster. The last remnant of my fortune is wrecked, I am utterly ruined, and my poor boy is perhaps dying.”Flora did not reply. She felt that in his present state of mind nothing she could say would comfort him.At that moment Le Rue suddenly roused himself and suggested that it was about time to think of breakfast.As all the party were of the same mind, the boat was allowed to drift down the gulf with the tide, while the pork and biscuit-bags were opened. Little time was allowed for the meal, nevertheless the mercurial Canadian managed, between mouthfuls, to keep up a running commentary on things in general. Among other things he referred to the property which his master had just purchased in Partridge Bay.“Whereabouts is this property that you talk of?” asked McLeod, becoming interested at the mention of Partridge Bay.“About la tête of de village near de house of Monsieur Gambart.”“What like a place is it?” asked McLeod, becoming suddenly much more interested.“Oh! one place mos bootiful,” replied Le Rue, with enthusiasm; “de house is superb, de grounds splendeed, et le prospect magnifique, wid plenty of duck—perhaps sometimes goose, vild vons—in von lac near cliff immense.”At the mention of the lake and the cliff McLeod’s brow darkened, and he glanced at Flora, who met his glance with a look of surprise.“Did you happen to hear the name of the place?” asked McLeod.“Oui, it vas, I tink, Lac Do, or Doo—someting like so.”“The scoundrel!” muttered McLeod between his teeth, while a gleam of wrath shot from his eyes.Le Rue looked at him with some surprise, being uncertain as to the person referred to by this pithy remark, and Flora glanced at him with a look of anxiety.After a brief silence he said to Flora in a low tone, as though he were expressing the continuation of his thoughts, “To think that the fellow should thus abuse my hospitality by inducing me to speak of our fallen fortunes, and of our being obliged to part with the old home we had loved so well, and never to utter a word about his having bought the place.”“Perhaps,” suggested Flora, “you had not mentioned the name of the place, and so it might not have occurred to him that—”“Oh yes, I did,” interrupted her father, with increasing anger, as his memory recalled the converse with Redding on the preceding night, “I remember it well, for he asked the name, and I told it him. It’s not that I care a straw whether the old place was bought by Tom, Dick, or Harry, but I can’t stand his having concealed the fact from me after so much, I may say, confidential conversation about it and our affairs generally. When I meet him again the young coxcomb shall have a piece of my mind.”McLeod was, as we have said, an angry man, and, as the intelligent reader well knows, angry men are apt to blind themselves and to become outrageously unreasonable. He was wrong in supposing that he did not care a straw who should have bought the old place. Without, perhaps, admitting it to himself, he had entertained a hope that the home which was intimately associated with his wife, and in which some of the happiest years of his life had been spent, would remain unsold until he should manage to scrape together money enough to repurchase it. If it had been sold to the proverbial Tom, or Dick, or Harry, he would have been bitterly disappointed; the fact that it was sold to one who had, as he thought, deceived him while enjoying his hospitality, only served as a reason for his finding relief to disappointment in indignation. Flora, who had entertained similar hopes in regard to Loch Dhu, shared the disappointment, but not the indignation, for, although it did seem unaccountable that one so evidently candid and truthful as Redding should conceal the actual state of matters, she felt certain that there was some satisfactory explanation of the mystery, and in that state of mind she determined to remain until time should throw further light on the affair.Neither she nor her father happened to remember that the truth had broken on Redding at the moment when the Indian entered the hut at Jenkins Creek with the news of the wreck, which created such a sudden excitement there that it banished thoughts of all other things from the minds of every one.The elder McLeod was a man of very strong and sensitive feelings, so that, although possessed of an amiable and kindly disposition, he found it exceedingly difficult to forget injuries, especially when these were unprovoked. His native generosity might have prompted him perhaps to find some excuse for the fur-trader’s apparent want of candour, or to believe that there might be some explanation of it, but, as it was, he flung into the other scale not only the supposed injury inflicted by Redding, but all his weighty disappointments at the loss of his old home, and of course generosity kicked the beam!Acting on these feelings, he turned the bow of the boat inshore without uttering a word, and when her keel grated on the gravelly beach, he looked somewhat sternly at Le Rue, and said:—“You may jump ashore, and go back to your fort.”“Monsieur?” exclaimed Le Rue, aghast with surprise.“Jump ashore,” repeated McLeod, with a steady, quiet look of impassibility. “Go, tell your master that I do not require further assistance from him.”The Canadian felt that McLeod’s look and tone admitted of neither question nor delay. His surprise therefore gave way to a burst of indignation. He leaped ashore with a degree of energy that sent the little boat violently off the beach, and the shingles spurted from his heels as he strode into the forest, renewing his vows of vengeance against his late friends and old enemies, “de Macklodds!”

Immediately on receipt of the note referred to, vigorous preparations were made to convey relief to Roderick McLeod. Such provisions as the party at Jenkins Creek could muster were packed into the smallest possible space, because the boat, or cobble, which was to convey them down the gulf was very small—scarcely large enough to hold the party which meant to embark in it. This party consisted of McLeod senior, Kenneth, and Flora, it being arranged that Ian and Rooney should remain to prosecute, as well as to guard, the works at the Creek.

Seeing that there was so little room to spare in the boat, Reginald Redding decided to hasten down on foot to the Cliff Fort, in order to see to the comfort of the wrecked men who had been sent there. He, however, offered the rescue party the services of his man, Le Rue, an offer which was accepted all the more readily that the Canadian possessed some knowledge of the coast.

It was very dark when they started, but, fortunately, calm. McLeod had resolved to travel night and day, if the weather permitted, until he should reach the scene of the wreck, and to take snatches of rest if possible in the boat.

There were only two oars in the boat, so that one of its crew was always idle. This, however, proved to be rather an advantage, for, by affording frequent relief to each rower, it saved the strength of all, and at the same time enabled them to relieve the tedium of the journey to poor Flora.

At first they proceeded along under the deep shade of the ghost-like cliffs in unbroken silence, the mind of each no doubt being busy with the wreck of their last remnant of fortune, as well as with the dangerous condition in which the youthful Roderick lay; but as the dawn of day approached they began to talk a little, and when the sun arose its gladdening beams appeared to carry hope to each breast, inducing an almost cheerful state of mind. In the case of François Le Rue, the influence of sunshine was so powerful that a feeling of sympathy and respect for the McLeods in the calamity which had overtaken them alone restrained him from breaking out into song!

“Father,” said Flora, as her sire, wearied by a long spell at the bow oar, resigned his seat to Kenneth, and sat down beside her, “that glorious light brings to my remembrance a very sweet verse, ‘Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.’”

“True, true, Flo,” returned her father, “I wish I had the simple faith that you seem to possess, but I haven’t, so there’s no use in pretending to it. This,” he added bitterly, “seems only a pure and unmitigated disaster. The last remnant of my fortune is wrecked, I am utterly ruined, and my poor boy is perhaps dying.”

Flora did not reply. She felt that in his present state of mind nothing she could say would comfort him.

At that moment Le Rue suddenly roused himself and suggested that it was about time to think of breakfast.

As all the party were of the same mind, the boat was allowed to drift down the gulf with the tide, while the pork and biscuit-bags were opened. Little time was allowed for the meal, nevertheless the mercurial Canadian managed, between mouthfuls, to keep up a running commentary on things in general. Among other things he referred to the property which his master had just purchased in Partridge Bay.

“Whereabouts is this property that you talk of?” asked McLeod, becoming interested at the mention of Partridge Bay.

“About la tête of de village near de house of Monsieur Gambart.”

“What like a place is it?” asked McLeod, becoming suddenly much more interested.

“Oh! one place mos bootiful,” replied Le Rue, with enthusiasm; “de house is superb, de grounds splendeed, et le prospect magnifique, wid plenty of duck—perhaps sometimes goose, vild vons—in von lac near cliff immense.”

At the mention of the lake and the cliff McLeod’s brow darkened, and he glanced at Flora, who met his glance with a look of surprise.

“Did you happen to hear the name of the place?” asked McLeod.

“Oui, it vas, I tink, Lac Do, or Doo—someting like so.”

“The scoundrel!” muttered McLeod between his teeth, while a gleam of wrath shot from his eyes.

Le Rue looked at him with some surprise, being uncertain as to the person referred to by this pithy remark, and Flora glanced at him with a look of anxiety.

After a brief silence he said to Flora in a low tone, as though he were expressing the continuation of his thoughts, “To think that the fellow should thus abuse my hospitality by inducing me to speak of our fallen fortunes, and of our being obliged to part with the old home we had loved so well, and never to utter a word about his having bought the place.”

“Perhaps,” suggested Flora, “you had not mentioned the name of the place, and so it might not have occurred to him that—”

“Oh yes, I did,” interrupted her father, with increasing anger, as his memory recalled the converse with Redding on the preceding night, “I remember it well, for he asked the name, and I told it him. It’s not that I care a straw whether the old place was bought by Tom, Dick, or Harry, but I can’t stand his having concealed the fact from me after so much, I may say, confidential conversation about it and our affairs generally. When I meet him again the young coxcomb shall have a piece of my mind.”

McLeod was, as we have said, an angry man, and, as the intelligent reader well knows, angry men are apt to blind themselves and to become outrageously unreasonable. He was wrong in supposing that he did not care a straw who should have bought the old place. Without, perhaps, admitting it to himself, he had entertained a hope that the home which was intimately associated with his wife, and in which some of the happiest years of his life had been spent, would remain unsold until he should manage to scrape together money enough to repurchase it. If it had been sold to the proverbial Tom, or Dick, or Harry, he would have been bitterly disappointed; the fact that it was sold to one who had, as he thought, deceived him while enjoying his hospitality, only served as a reason for his finding relief to disappointment in indignation. Flora, who had entertained similar hopes in regard to Loch Dhu, shared the disappointment, but not the indignation, for, although it did seem unaccountable that one so evidently candid and truthful as Redding should conceal the actual state of matters, she felt certain that there was some satisfactory explanation of the mystery, and in that state of mind she determined to remain until time should throw further light on the affair.

Neither she nor her father happened to remember that the truth had broken on Redding at the moment when the Indian entered the hut at Jenkins Creek with the news of the wreck, which created such a sudden excitement there that it banished thoughts of all other things from the minds of every one.

The elder McLeod was a man of very strong and sensitive feelings, so that, although possessed of an amiable and kindly disposition, he found it exceedingly difficult to forget injuries, especially when these were unprovoked. His native generosity might have prompted him perhaps to find some excuse for the fur-trader’s apparent want of candour, or to believe that there might be some explanation of it, but, as it was, he flung into the other scale not only the supposed injury inflicted by Redding, but all his weighty disappointments at the loss of his old home, and of course generosity kicked the beam!

Acting on these feelings, he turned the bow of the boat inshore without uttering a word, and when her keel grated on the gravelly beach, he looked somewhat sternly at Le Rue, and said:—

“You may jump ashore, and go back to your fort.”

“Monsieur?” exclaimed Le Rue, aghast with surprise.

“Jump ashore,” repeated McLeod, with a steady, quiet look of impassibility. “Go, tell your master that I do not require further assistance from him.”

The Canadian felt that McLeod’s look and tone admitted of neither question nor delay. His surprise therefore gave way to a burst of indignation. He leaped ashore with a degree of energy that sent the little boat violently off the beach, and the shingles spurted from his heels as he strode into the forest, renewing his vows of vengeance against his late friends and old enemies, “de Macklodds!”

Chapter Nine.Surmisings, Disagreements, Vexations, and Botherations.Great was the amazement and perplexity of Reginald Redding when his faithful cook returned to the Cliff Fort bearing the elder McLeod’s message. At first he jumped to the conclusion that McLeod had observed his affection for Flora, and meant thus to give him a broad hint that his addresses were not agreeable. Being, like McLeod, an angry man, he too became somewhat blind. All his pride and indignation were aroused. The more he brooded over the subject, however, the more he came to see that this could not be the cause of McLeod’s behaviour. He was terribly perplexed, and, finally, after several days, he determined to go down to the scene of the wreck and demand an explanation.“It is the proper course to follow,” he muttered to himself, one day after breakfast, while brooding alone over the remnants of the meal, “for it would be unjust to allow myself to lie under a false imputation, and it would be equally unjust to allow the McLeods to remain under a false impression. Perhaps some enemy may have put them against me. Anyhow, I shall go down and try to clear the matter up. If I succeed—well. If not—”His thoughts were diverted at this point by the entrance of Bob Smart. That energetic individual had been to visit the frost-bitten seamen, for whose comfort an old out-house had been made weather-tight, and fitted up as a rough-and-ready hospital.“They’re all getting on famously,” said Bob, rubbing his hands, as he sat down and pulled out the little black pipe to which he was so much addicted. “Green’s left little toe looks beautiful this morning, quite red and healthy, and, I think, won’t require amputation, which is well, for it is doubly aleftlittle toe since you cut off the right one yesterday. His big toe seems to my amateur eye in a thoroughly convalescent state, but his left middle finger obviously requires removal. You’ll do it to-day, I suppose?”“Yes, I meant to do it yesterday,” answered Redding, with much gravity, “but gave it another chance. How’s Brixton?”“Oh, he’s all right. He groans enough to make one believe he’s the worst of ’em all, but his hurts are mostly skin deep, and will heal no doubt in course of time. His nose, certainly, looks blobby enough, like an over-ripe plum, and I rather think it’s that which makes him growl so horribly; but after all, it won’t be shortened more than quarter of an inch, which will be rather an advantage, for it was originally too long. Then as to Harper and Jennings, they are quite cheery and their appetites increasing, which is the best of signs, though, I fear, poor fellows, that the first will lose a hand and the other a foot. The dressings you put on yesterday seem to have relieved them much. I wish I could say the same for the poor nigger. His foot is sure to go. It’s in such a state that I believe the cleverest surgeon alive couldn’t save it, and even if he could what’s left of it would be of no use. You know I have a mechanical turn and could make him a splendid wooden leg if you will pluck up courage to cut it off.”“No,” said Redding decidedly; “it’s all very well to lop off a finger or a toe with a razor, but I don’t think it’s allowable for an amateur to attempt a foot except under circumstances of extreme urgency.”“Well, it don’t much matter,” continued Bob Smart, drawing vigorously at the black pipe, “for we’ll have an opportunity of sending them up to Quebec in a week or so, and in the meantime the poor fellows are very jolly considering their circumstances. That man Ned Wright keeps them all in good humour. Although, as you know, he has suffered severely in hands and feet, he feels himself well enough to limp about the room and act the part, as he says, of ‘stooard and cook to the ship’s company.’ He insisted on beginning last night just after you left, and I found him hard at it this morning when I went to see them. He must have been the life of the ship before she went ashore, for he goes about continually trolling out some verses of his own composing, though he has got no more idea of tune in him than the main-top-mast back-stay, to which, or something of the same kind, he makes very frequent reference. Here is a verse of his latest composition:—”O-o-o-o-h! it’s once I froze the end of my nose,On the coast of Labrador, sir,An’ I lost my smell, an’ my taste as well,An’ my pipe, which made me roar, sir;But the traders come, an’ think wot they done!They poked an’ pinched an’ skewered me;They cut an’ snipped, an’ they carved an’ ripped,An’ they clothed an’ fed an’ cured me.Chorus.—Hooroo! it’s trueAn’ a sailor’s life for me.“Not bad, eh?” said Bob.“Might be worse,” answered Redding, with the air of one whose mind is preoccupied.“I’ve often wondered,” continued Bob Smart, in a moralising tone, and looking intently at the wreaths of smoke that curled from his lips as if for inspiration, “I’ve often wondered how it is that sailors—especially British sailors—appear to possess such an enormous fund of superabundant rollicking humour, insomuch that they will jest and sing sometimes in the midst of troubles and dangers that would take the spirit out of ordinary men such as you and me.”“Bob Smart,” said Redding earnestly.“Yes,” said Bob.“D’you know it strikes me that I ought to go down to the wreck to see how the McLeods are getting on.”“O ah! well, to change the subject, d’you know Mr Redding, that same idea struck me some days ago, for Jonas Bellew has left them to look after his own affairs, and the Indians were to go north on the 13th, so the McLeods must have been living for some time on salt provisions, unless they have used their guns with better success than has been reported of them. If you remember, I have mentioned it to you more than once, but you seemed to avoid the subject.”“Well, perhaps I did, and perhaps I had my reasons for it. However, I am going down now, immediately after dressing the poor fellows’ sores. Will you therefore be good enough to get the small boat ready, with some fresh meat, and tell Le Rue and Michel to be prepared to start in an hour or so.”The day after the above conversation McLeod senior walked down to the wreck accompanied by Flora. Kenneth had been left in charge of the invalid, whose system had received such a shock that his recovery was extremely slow, and it had been deemed advisable not only to avoid, but to forbid all reference to the wreck. Indeed Roderick himself seemed to have no desire to speak about it, and although he had roused himself on the arrival of his relations, he had hitherto lain in such a weak semi-lethargic state that it was feared his head must have received severer injury than was at first supposed. On the morning of the day in question an Indian had arrived with a letter from Mr Gambart of Partridge Bay, which had not tended to soothe the luckless father.“It seems very unfortunate,” said Flora, in a sympathetic tone.“Seemsunfortunate?” exclaimed McLeod, with some asperity, “itisunfortunate. Why, what could be more so? Just think of it, Flo! Here am I without a penny of ready cash in the world, and although Gambart knows this as well as I do myself, he writes me, first, that he has sold Loch Dhu to that fellow Redding, and now that he has bought Barker’s Mill for me without my sanction!”“But you gave him leave to sell Loch Dhu,” suggested Flora.“Oh, yes, yes, of course, and I told him to let it go at a low sum, for I needed cash very much at the beginning of this venture at Jenkins Creek. But I find that our expenses are so small that I could afford to hold on for some time on the funds I have. To be sure Gambart could not know that, but—but—why did the fellow go and buy that mill for me? It’s being a great bargain and a splendid property, just now are no excuse, for he knew my poverty, and also knew that I shall feel bound in honour to take it off his hands when I manage to scrape the sum together, because of course it was done in a friendly way to oblige me. No doubt he will say that there’s no hurry about repayment, and that he won’t take interest, and so forth, but he had no business to buy it at all!”Flora made no reply to this, for she saw that her father was waxing wroth under his misfortunes.Her silence tended rather to increase his wrath, for he was dissatisfied with himself more than with others, and would have been glad even of contradiction in order that he might relieve his feelings by disputation.While this state of mind was strong upon him they reached a turn in the path that brought the wreck into view and revealed the fact that a boat lay on the beach, from which three men had just landed. Two of these remained by the boat, while the third advanced towards the woods.Flora’s hand tightened on her father’s arm.“Surely that is Mr Redding,” she said.The frown which had clouded McLeod’s brow instantly deepened. “Go,” he said, “walk slowly back towards the hut. I will overtake you in a few minutes.”Flora hesitated. “Won’t you let me stay, father?”“No, my dear, I wish to talk privately with Redding—go.”He patted her kindly on the head, and she left him with evident reluctance.“Good-morning, Mr McLeod,” said Redding, as he approached.“Good-morning,” replied the other stiffly, without extending his hand.Redding flushed, but restrained himself, and continued in a calm matter-of-course tone:“Thinking it probable that you might be in want of fresh provisions, I have run down with a small supply, which is at your service.”“Thank you,” replied McLeod, still stiffly, “I am not quite destitute of fresh provisions, and happen to have a good supply of ammunition; besides, if I were starving I would not accept aid from one who has deceived me.”“Deceived you!” exclaimed Redding, waxing indignant more at McLeod’s tone and manner than his words, “wherein have I deceived you?”As he put the question his mind leaped to the line of demarcation between the properties at Jenkins Creek, and he racked his brains hastily to discover what he could have said or done at their first interview that could have been misunderstood. McLeod was one of those men in whom anger is easily increased by the exhibition of anger in others. It was therefore in a still more offensive tone that he said:—“Sir, you deceived me by violating the laws of hospitality—by keeping silence when candour required you to speak.”“Sir,” exclaimed Redding, still thinking of the line of demarcation, and losing his temper altogether, “in all that has passed between us I have invariably spoken with candour, and if at any time I have kept silence I consider that in so doing I have done you a favour.”When two fiery men clash, an explosion is the natural result.“Very well, sir,” said McLeod, with a look of withering contempt, “as I don’t accept your favours I don’t thank you for them, so you may take yourself off as soon as you please.”He waited for no reply but turned abruptly on his heel and walked away, while Redding, with a face of scarlet, strode down the beach and leaped into his boat.Not a word did he utter to his astonished men beyond ordering them to pull back to the fort. Apparently the rate of rowing was not fast enough to please him, for in a few minutes he ordered Michel to take the helm, and himself seized the oar, which he plied with such vigour that, as Michel afterwards averred, the rudder had to be kept nearly hard a-port all the time to prevent the boat being pulled round even though Le Rue was working like a steam engine and blowing like a grampus!Towards the afternoon this exercise, coupled with reflection, cooled Reginald Redding’s spirit while it warmed his body, and at last he deemed it right to pause for the purpose of letting the men have a pipe and a mouthful of food. While they were busy refreshing themselves he leant over the stern, gazed down into the water, and brooded over his supposed wrongs.Whether it was the clearness of the still water, through which he could see the little fish and crabs floating and crawling placidly among the pebbles at the bottom, or the soothing influence of the quiet afternoon, or the sedative effect of a reflective condition of mind, we know not, but it is certain that before the pipes were smoked out he fur-trader observed that his reflected visage wore a very unpleasant-looking frown, insomuch that a slight smile curled his lips. The contrast between the frowning brows and the smiling lips appeared so absurd that, to prevent the impropriety of becoming too suddenly good-humoured, he turned his eyes towards his men and encountered the perplexed gaze of Le Rue, as that worthy sat with his elbows on his knees in the calm enjoyment of his pipe.Redding at once resumed his frown.“François,” said he, “did you have much conversation with McLeod before he dismissed you on the way down?”“Oui, Monsieur, we had ver moche conversatione.”“Can you remember what it was about?”“Oh oui. ’Bout a’most all tings. I tell him de mos’ part of my histoire,—me fadder, me moder, broder, sister, an’ all dat, ’bout vich he seem not to care von buttin. Den ve convarsatione ’bout de fur-trade, an’ de—”“Well well,” interrupted Redding, “but what was the last thing, just before he sent you off?”“Ah let me zee. Oui—it was ’bout you’self. I tell him ’bout de property—de Lock Doo vat you was—”“Le Rue,” exclaimed Redding, suddenly and very angrily, “you’re a consummate ass!”“Vraiment,” said Le Rue, with a slight shrug of his shoulders, “I am so for remaining in de service of von goose!”There was such good-humoured impudence in the man’s face as he said this that Redding laughed in spite of himself.“Well,” he said, “your readiness to talk has at all events caused bad feeling between me and the McLeods. However, it don’t matter. Ship your oars again and give way with a will.”The men obeyed, and as Redding sat buried in meditation at the helm he became convinced that McLeod’s anger had been aroused by his silence in regard to the purchase of Loch Dhu, for he himself had almost forgotten that the sudden entrance of the Indian had checked the words which were at the moment on his lips. When he thought of this, and of Flora, he resolved to pull back and explain matters, but when he thought of McLeod’s tone and manner he determined to proceed to the fort. Then, when he thought of Roderick’s precarious state, his mind again wavered, but, other thoughts and plans suggesting themselves, he finally decided on returning home.That night he encamped in the woods and continued to brood over the camp-fire long after his men were asleep. Next day he reached the Cliff Fort, when, after seeing to the welfare of the wrecked men, he informed Bob Smart that he meant to absent himself for about a week, and to leave him, Bob, in charge. He also gave orders that no one should quit the post, or furnish any assistance to the McLeods.“But, sir,” said Bob Smart, in surprise, “they will be sure to starve.”“No fear of them,” replied Redding, “Kenneth is young and active, and they have plenty of ammunition.”“If report be true,” returned Bob, “neither Kenneth nor any of his kin can hit a sheep at twenty yards off. Bellew says they are as blind as bats with the gun.”“No matter. They have a boat, and one of them can row back to Jenkins Creek for fresh meat. Anyway, do as I bid you, and be very careful of the wrecked men.”Smart, although fond of discussion, knew how to obey. He therefore said no more but bade Redding good-night and retired to his humble couch, which, he was wont to say, was a fine example of compensation, inasmuch as the fact of its being three inches too narrow was counterbalanced by its being six inches too long.

Great was the amazement and perplexity of Reginald Redding when his faithful cook returned to the Cliff Fort bearing the elder McLeod’s message. At first he jumped to the conclusion that McLeod had observed his affection for Flora, and meant thus to give him a broad hint that his addresses were not agreeable. Being, like McLeod, an angry man, he too became somewhat blind. All his pride and indignation were aroused. The more he brooded over the subject, however, the more he came to see that this could not be the cause of McLeod’s behaviour. He was terribly perplexed, and, finally, after several days, he determined to go down to the scene of the wreck and demand an explanation.

“It is the proper course to follow,” he muttered to himself, one day after breakfast, while brooding alone over the remnants of the meal, “for it would be unjust to allow myself to lie under a false imputation, and it would be equally unjust to allow the McLeods to remain under a false impression. Perhaps some enemy may have put them against me. Anyhow, I shall go down and try to clear the matter up. If I succeed—well. If not—”

His thoughts were diverted at this point by the entrance of Bob Smart. That energetic individual had been to visit the frost-bitten seamen, for whose comfort an old out-house had been made weather-tight, and fitted up as a rough-and-ready hospital.

“They’re all getting on famously,” said Bob, rubbing his hands, as he sat down and pulled out the little black pipe to which he was so much addicted. “Green’s left little toe looks beautiful this morning, quite red and healthy, and, I think, won’t require amputation, which is well, for it is doubly aleftlittle toe since you cut off the right one yesterday. His big toe seems to my amateur eye in a thoroughly convalescent state, but his left middle finger obviously requires removal. You’ll do it to-day, I suppose?”

“Yes, I meant to do it yesterday,” answered Redding, with much gravity, “but gave it another chance. How’s Brixton?”

“Oh, he’s all right. He groans enough to make one believe he’s the worst of ’em all, but his hurts are mostly skin deep, and will heal no doubt in course of time. His nose, certainly, looks blobby enough, like an over-ripe plum, and I rather think it’s that which makes him growl so horribly; but after all, it won’t be shortened more than quarter of an inch, which will be rather an advantage, for it was originally too long. Then as to Harper and Jennings, they are quite cheery and their appetites increasing, which is the best of signs, though, I fear, poor fellows, that the first will lose a hand and the other a foot. The dressings you put on yesterday seem to have relieved them much. I wish I could say the same for the poor nigger. His foot is sure to go. It’s in such a state that I believe the cleverest surgeon alive couldn’t save it, and even if he could what’s left of it would be of no use. You know I have a mechanical turn and could make him a splendid wooden leg if you will pluck up courage to cut it off.”

“No,” said Redding decidedly; “it’s all very well to lop off a finger or a toe with a razor, but I don’t think it’s allowable for an amateur to attempt a foot except under circumstances of extreme urgency.”

“Well, it don’t much matter,” continued Bob Smart, drawing vigorously at the black pipe, “for we’ll have an opportunity of sending them up to Quebec in a week or so, and in the meantime the poor fellows are very jolly considering their circumstances. That man Ned Wright keeps them all in good humour. Although, as you know, he has suffered severely in hands and feet, he feels himself well enough to limp about the room and act the part, as he says, of ‘stooard and cook to the ship’s company.’ He insisted on beginning last night just after you left, and I found him hard at it this morning when I went to see them. He must have been the life of the ship before she went ashore, for he goes about continually trolling out some verses of his own composing, though he has got no more idea of tune in him than the main-top-mast back-stay, to which, or something of the same kind, he makes very frequent reference. Here is a verse of his latest composition:—”

O-o-o-o-h! it’s once I froze the end of my nose,On the coast of Labrador, sir,An’ I lost my smell, an’ my taste as well,An’ my pipe, which made me roar, sir;But the traders come, an’ think wot they done!They poked an’ pinched an’ skewered me;They cut an’ snipped, an’ they carved an’ ripped,An’ they clothed an’ fed an’ cured me.Chorus.—Hooroo! it’s trueAn’ a sailor’s life for me.

O-o-o-o-h! it’s once I froze the end of my nose,On the coast of Labrador, sir,An’ I lost my smell, an’ my taste as well,An’ my pipe, which made me roar, sir;But the traders come, an’ think wot they done!They poked an’ pinched an’ skewered me;They cut an’ snipped, an’ they carved an’ ripped,An’ they clothed an’ fed an’ cured me.Chorus.—Hooroo! it’s trueAn’ a sailor’s life for me.

“Not bad, eh?” said Bob.

“Might be worse,” answered Redding, with the air of one whose mind is preoccupied.

“I’ve often wondered,” continued Bob Smart, in a moralising tone, and looking intently at the wreaths of smoke that curled from his lips as if for inspiration, “I’ve often wondered how it is that sailors—especially British sailors—appear to possess such an enormous fund of superabundant rollicking humour, insomuch that they will jest and sing sometimes in the midst of troubles and dangers that would take the spirit out of ordinary men such as you and me.”

“Bob Smart,” said Redding earnestly.

“Yes,” said Bob.

“D’you know it strikes me that I ought to go down to the wreck to see how the McLeods are getting on.”

“O ah! well, to change the subject, d’you know Mr Redding, that same idea struck me some days ago, for Jonas Bellew has left them to look after his own affairs, and the Indians were to go north on the 13th, so the McLeods must have been living for some time on salt provisions, unless they have used their guns with better success than has been reported of them. If you remember, I have mentioned it to you more than once, but you seemed to avoid the subject.”

“Well, perhaps I did, and perhaps I had my reasons for it. However, I am going down now, immediately after dressing the poor fellows’ sores. Will you therefore be good enough to get the small boat ready, with some fresh meat, and tell Le Rue and Michel to be prepared to start in an hour or so.”

The day after the above conversation McLeod senior walked down to the wreck accompanied by Flora. Kenneth had been left in charge of the invalid, whose system had received such a shock that his recovery was extremely slow, and it had been deemed advisable not only to avoid, but to forbid all reference to the wreck. Indeed Roderick himself seemed to have no desire to speak about it, and although he had roused himself on the arrival of his relations, he had hitherto lain in such a weak semi-lethargic state that it was feared his head must have received severer injury than was at first supposed. On the morning of the day in question an Indian had arrived with a letter from Mr Gambart of Partridge Bay, which had not tended to soothe the luckless father.

“It seems very unfortunate,” said Flora, in a sympathetic tone.

“Seemsunfortunate?” exclaimed McLeod, with some asperity, “itisunfortunate. Why, what could be more so? Just think of it, Flo! Here am I without a penny of ready cash in the world, and although Gambart knows this as well as I do myself, he writes me, first, that he has sold Loch Dhu to that fellow Redding, and now that he has bought Barker’s Mill for me without my sanction!”

“But you gave him leave to sell Loch Dhu,” suggested Flora.

“Oh, yes, yes, of course, and I told him to let it go at a low sum, for I needed cash very much at the beginning of this venture at Jenkins Creek. But I find that our expenses are so small that I could afford to hold on for some time on the funds I have. To be sure Gambart could not know that, but—but—why did the fellow go and buy that mill for me? It’s being a great bargain and a splendid property, just now are no excuse, for he knew my poverty, and also knew that I shall feel bound in honour to take it off his hands when I manage to scrape the sum together, because of course it was done in a friendly way to oblige me. No doubt he will say that there’s no hurry about repayment, and that he won’t take interest, and so forth, but he had no business to buy it at all!”

Flora made no reply to this, for she saw that her father was waxing wroth under his misfortunes.

Her silence tended rather to increase his wrath, for he was dissatisfied with himself more than with others, and would have been glad even of contradiction in order that he might relieve his feelings by disputation.

While this state of mind was strong upon him they reached a turn in the path that brought the wreck into view and revealed the fact that a boat lay on the beach, from which three men had just landed. Two of these remained by the boat, while the third advanced towards the woods.

Flora’s hand tightened on her father’s arm.

“Surely that is Mr Redding,” she said.

The frown which had clouded McLeod’s brow instantly deepened. “Go,” he said, “walk slowly back towards the hut. I will overtake you in a few minutes.”

Flora hesitated. “Won’t you let me stay, father?”

“No, my dear, I wish to talk privately with Redding—go.”

He patted her kindly on the head, and she left him with evident reluctance.

“Good-morning, Mr McLeod,” said Redding, as he approached.

“Good-morning,” replied the other stiffly, without extending his hand.

Redding flushed, but restrained himself, and continued in a calm matter-of-course tone:

“Thinking it probable that you might be in want of fresh provisions, I have run down with a small supply, which is at your service.”

“Thank you,” replied McLeod, still stiffly, “I am not quite destitute of fresh provisions, and happen to have a good supply of ammunition; besides, if I were starving I would not accept aid from one who has deceived me.”

“Deceived you!” exclaimed Redding, waxing indignant more at McLeod’s tone and manner than his words, “wherein have I deceived you?”

As he put the question his mind leaped to the line of demarcation between the properties at Jenkins Creek, and he racked his brains hastily to discover what he could have said or done at their first interview that could have been misunderstood. McLeod was one of those men in whom anger is easily increased by the exhibition of anger in others. It was therefore in a still more offensive tone that he said:—

“Sir, you deceived me by violating the laws of hospitality—by keeping silence when candour required you to speak.”

“Sir,” exclaimed Redding, still thinking of the line of demarcation, and losing his temper altogether, “in all that has passed between us I have invariably spoken with candour, and if at any time I have kept silence I consider that in so doing I have done you a favour.”

When two fiery men clash, an explosion is the natural result.

“Very well, sir,” said McLeod, with a look of withering contempt, “as I don’t accept your favours I don’t thank you for them, so you may take yourself off as soon as you please.”

He waited for no reply but turned abruptly on his heel and walked away, while Redding, with a face of scarlet, strode down the beach and leaped into his boat.

Not a word did he utter to his astonished men beyond ordering them to pull back to the fort. Apparently the rate of rowing was not fast enough to please him, for in a few minutes he ordered Michel to take the helm, and himself seized the oar, which he plied with such vigour that, as Michel afterwards averred, the rudder had to be kept nearly hard a-port all the time to prevent the boat being pulled round even though Le Rue was working like a steam engine and blowing like a grampus!

Towards the afternoon this exercise, coupled with reflection, cooled Reginald Redding’s spirit while it warmed his body, and at last he deemed it right to pause for the purpose of letting the men have a pipe and a mouthful of food. While they were busy refreshing themselves he leant over the stern, gazed down into the water, and brooded over his supposed wrongs.

Whether it was the clearness of the still water, through which he could see the little fish and crabs floating and crawling placidly among the pebbles at the bottom, or the soothing influence of the quiet afternoon, or the sedative effect of a reflective condition of mind, we know not, but it is certain that before the pipes were smoked out he fur-trader observed that his reflected visage wore a very unpleasant-looking frown, insomuch that a slight smile curled his lips. The contrast between the frowning brows and the smiling lips appeared so absurd that, to prevent the impropriety of becoming too suddenly good-humoured, he turned his eyes towards his men and encountered the perplexed gaze of Le Rue, as that worthy sat with his elbows on his knees in the calm enjoyment of his pipe.

Redding at once resumed his frown.

“François,” said he, “did you have much conversation with McLeod before he dismissed you on the way down?”

“Oui, Monsieur, we had ver moche conversatione.”

“Can you remember what it was about?”

“Oh oui. ’Bout a’most all tings. I tell him de mos’ part of my histoire,—me fadder, me moder, broder, sister, an’ all dat, ’bout vich he seem not to care von buttin. Den ve convarsatione ’bout de fur-trade, an’ de—”

“Well well,” interrupted Redding, “but what was the last thing, just before he sent you off?”

“Ah let me zee. Oui—it was ’bout you’self. I tell him ’bout de property—de Lock Doo vat you was—”

“Le Rue,” exclaimed Redding, suddenly and very angrily, “you’re a consummate ass!”

“Vraiment,” said Le Rue, with a slight shrug of his shoulders, “I am so for remaining in de service of von goose!”

There was such good-humoured impudence in the man’s face as he said this that Redding laughed in spite of himself.

“Well,” he said, “your readiness to talk has at all events caused bad feeling between me and the McLeods. However, it don’t matter. Ship your oars again and give way with a will.”

The men obeyed, and as Redding sat buried in meditation at the helm he became convinced that McLeod’s anger had been aroused by his silence in regard to the purchase of Loch Dhu, for he himself had almost forgotten that the sudden entrance of the Indian had checked the words which were at the moment on his lips. When he thought of this, and of Flora, he resolved to pull back and explain matters, but when he thought of McLeod’s tone and manner he determined to proceed to the fort. Then, when he thought of Roderick’s precarious state, his mind again wavered, but, other thoughts and plans suggesting themselves, he finally decided on returning home.

That night he encamped in the woods and continued to brood over the camp-fire long after his men were asleep. Next day he reached the Cliff Fort, when, after seeing to the welfare of the wrecked men, he informed Bob Smart that he meant to absent himself for about a week, and to leave him, Bob, in charge. He also gave orders that no one should quit the post, or furnish any assistance to the McLeods.

“But, sir,” said Bob Smart, in surprise, “they will be sure to starve.”

“No fear of them,” replied Redding, “Kenneth is young and active, and they have plenty of ammunition.”

“If report be true,” returned Bob, “neither Kenneth nor any of his kin can hit a sheep at twenty yards off. Bellew says they are as blind as bats with the gun.”

“No matter. They have a boat, and one of them can row back to Jenkins Creek for fresh meat. Anyway, do as I bid you, and be very careful of the wrecked men.”

Smart, although fond of discussion, knew how to obey. He therefore said no more but bade Redding good-night and retired to his humble couch, which, he was wont to say, was a fine example of compensation, inasmuch as the fact of its being three inches too narrow was counterbalanced by its being six inches too long.

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