e
island. The afternoon was clear and beautiful. As the sun sloped toward
the rose-coloured hills of the mainland the whole family stood out in
front of the lighthouse looking up at the tower.

"Regard him well, my children," said Baptiste; "God has given him to us
to keep, and to keep us. Thibault says he is a Windigo. B'EN! We shall
see that he is a friendly Windigo. Every minute all the night he
shall wink, just for kindness and good luck to all the world, till the
daylight."

II

On the ninth of November, at three o'clock in the afternoon, Baptiste
went into the tower to see that the clockwork was in order for the
night. He set the dial on the machine, put a few drops of oil on the
bearings of the cylinder, and started to wind up the weight.

It rose a few inches, gave a dull click, and then stopped dead. He
tugged a little harder, but it would not move. Then he tried to let it
down. He pushed at the lever that set the clockwork in motion.

He might as well have tried to make the island turn around by pushing at
one of the little spruce trees that clung to the rock.

Then it dawned fearfully upon him that something must be wrong.
Trembling with anxiety, he climbed up and peered in among the wheels.

The escapement wheel was cracked clean through, as if some one had
struck it with the head of an axe, and one of the pallets of the spindle
was stuck fast in the crack. He could knock it out easily enough, but
when the crack came around again, the pallet would catch and the clock
would stop once more. It was a fatal injury.

Baptiste turned white, then red, gripped his head in his hands, and ran
down the steps, out of the door, straight toward his canoe, which was
pulled up on the western side of the island.

"DAME!" he cried, "who has done this? Let me catch him! If that old
Thibault--"

As he leaped down the rocky slope the setting sun gleamed straight in
his eyes. It was poised like a ball of fire on the very edge of the
mountains. Five minutes more and it would be gone. Fifteen minutes more
and darkness would close in. Then the giant's eye must begin to glow,
and to wink precisely once a minute all night long. If not, what became
of the keeper's word, his faith, his honour?

No matter how the injury to the clockwork was done. No matter who was
to be blamed or punished for it. That could wait. The question now was
whether the light would fail or not. And it must be answered within a
quarter of an h