with its lonely cross, a great wave of grief overwhelmed him kneeling at his paddle. His head sank forward on his chest while his shoulders shook with the emotion that engulfed him. For a space he remained with head bowed, in the attitude of prayer, as the canoe drifted inshore. Then, when the paroxysm passed, he shook the black hair from his eyes and, straightening up, resumed paddling. But as he neared the turn of the river his moving lips framed the words again and again: "Ma pauvre Marie! Ma pauvre Marie!"
In a moment the post and island broke into view. There, with the sun on it, as he had left it a year ago, a hunted man, stood his cross.
Heedless of the danger he ran in being seen, he paddled directly to the island. All that he held most dear, the sacred memories of the happy weeks he had spent there with her, all that love had meant to him, was symbolized by that pitiful spruce cross on which was burned the name: "Marie Hertel."
Here the agony of months of solitary brooding, the torture of a year of despair, overwhelmed the heartbroken trapper, and, throwing himself on the ground, one arm around the base of the cross, he gave himself up to his grief. Later, at sunset, he crossed to the post,
"François Hertel, or I'm no Scotchman!" cried the surprised factor as Hertel entered the trade-house.
"Bonjour, ma fr'en'; I have come back." The men warmly gripped hands.
