Another June.
Along the northern shore of the St. Lawrence Gulf, through the cold,
gray light of early dawn, a yacht was steaming eastward.
Leaning against the rail, near the bow, a woman with eager eyes watched
the elusive coast. But this coast, in the spreading light, was rapidly
revealing itself, becoming less ethereal, more savage and majestic. The
woman was daintily attired. Every detail of her apparel, from the
Parisian hat to the perfect-fitting shoes, while simple and designed
expressly _pour le voyage_, was sumptuous in its simplicity.
Although about thirty-five years of age, her round, rather wide face,
graceful figure, and vivacious expression would have made deception easy
if she cared to practise it. In feelings, in manner, and in appearance,
she was eighteen. And she would never be older. A peculiar droop at the
outer corners of two large and very dark eyes, and a mouth--too small
for the face--with a slight and rather infantile projection of the upper
lip gave a plaintive, half-melancholy expression to an otherwise merry
and youthful face.
Behind her, pacing to and fro, a strongly built, elderly man with heavy
face and heavy hands, also watched the coast.
"_Voila, Jacques_!" and the lady pointed to a promontory in front,
just revealed by the vanishing mist. "_Le voila, n'est-ce pas_?"
The man stepped forward and stood beside her. After a careful scrutiny
he replied, also in French:
"Truly, I think it is."
"_Ah, le bonheur_! At last! And how soon shall we land?"
He hesitated, stroking the end of his nose with a stubby finger. "In
less than two hours."
"In less than two hours! Absurd! You mean to say in less than twenty
minutes, is it not?"
He shrugged his shoulders in respectful protestation. "But, Princess,
deign to remember that we are still some miles from this headland, and
that Monsieur, your father, is yet farther away,--some fifteen miles, at
the very end of the bay which lies beyond."