ests; ledge after ledge of ice-worn granite thrust
out like fangs into the foaming waves of the gulf. Nature, with her
teeth bare and her lips scarred: this was the landscape. And in the
midst of it, on a low hill above the murmuring river, surrounded by the
blanched trunks of fallen trees, and the blackened debris of wood and
moss, a small, square, weather-beaten palisade of rough-hewn spruce, and
a patch of the bright green leaves and white flowers of the dwarf cornel
lavishing their beauty on a lonely grave. This was the only habitation
in sight--the last home of the Englishman, Jack Chisholm, whose story
has yet to be told.

In the shelter of this hill Dan Scott cooked his supper and shared it
with Pichou. When night was dark he rolled himself in his blanket,
and slept in the stern of the boat, with the dog at his side. Their
friendship was sealed.

The next morning the weather was squally and full of sudden anger. They
crept out with difficulty through the long rollers that barred the tiny
harbour, and beat their way along the coast. At Moisie they must run far
out into the gulf to avoid the treacherous shoals, and to pass beyond
the furious race of white-capped billows that poured from the great
river for miles into the sea. Then they turned and made for the group of
half-submerged mountains and scattered rocks that Nature, in some freak
of fury, had thrown into the throat of Seven Islands Bay. That was a
difficult passage. The black shores were swept by headlong tides. Tusks
of granite tore the waves. Baffled and perplexed, the wind flapped and
whirled among the cliffs. Through all this the little boat buffeted
bravely on till she reached the point of the Gran Boule. Then a strange
thing happened.

The water was lumpy; the evening was growing thick; a swirl of the
tide and a shift of the wind caught the chaloupe and swung her suddenly
around. The mainsail jibed, and before he knew how it happened Dan Scott
was overboard. He could swim but clumsily. The water blinded him, choked
him, dragged him down. Then he felt Pichou gripping him by the shoulder,
buoying him up, swimming mightily toward the chaloupe which hung
trembling in the wind a few yards away. At last they reached it and the
man climbed over the stern and pulled the dog after him. Dan Scott lay
in the bottom of the boat, shivering, dazed, until he felt the dog's
cold nose and warm breath against his cheek. He flung his arm around
Pichon's neck.

"Th