lost their direction, and knew not toward which point to seek the shore.  Paddling at hazard might take them further out into the centre of the lake, and indeed they were too worn with battling with the storm to do any more than keep the tossed skiff from capsizing.  Morning dawned wet and gray, after a miserable night; they were drenched to the skin, and almost spent with weariness and hunger, and now that a wan and ghostly daylight had come they were no better for it, for an impenetrable fog shut them in on every side.  Marie and her mother began to pray.  The Black Beaver sat dogged and inert, with upturned face, regarding the sky.

The day wore by wearily; some of the time they paddled straight onward, with sinking hearts, knowing not toward what they were going, and at others rested with the inaction of despair.  When the position of the bright spot which meant the sun told that it lacked but an hour of sunset, and the clouds seemed to be thickening rather than dispersing, the Black Beaver gave a long and hideous howl.  His wife and daughter shuddered when they heard it, as would any one, for a more unearthly and discordant cry was never uttered by man or beast; but they had double reason to shudder; it was the death cry of their nation.

“We can never live through another night,” said he, and he covered his face with his arms.

“Father,” said Marie, “try what power there is in the white man’s God.  Say that you will give Him your devil-stone if He will save us now.”

“The priest may have it,” said the Black Beaver, and he uncovered his face and sat up as though expecting a miracle.  And the miracle came.  The sun was setting behind them, and in front, somewhat above the horizon, the clouds parted, forming a circle about a white cross which hung suspended in the air.  They all saw it distinctly, but only for a few moments; then the clouds closed and the vision vanished.  With new hope the little party rowed toward the spot where they had last seen it, and through the fog they could dimly discern the outlines of the coast—­they were nearing land.  A little further on, and a village was visible, which gained a more and more familiar aspect as they approached.  Night settled down before they reached it, but ere their feet touched the land they had recognized the mission of St. Ignace.  The cross was not a vision.  The clouds had parted to show them the great white landmark and sign which Father Ignatius had raised upon the little knoll.

The next day the Black Beaver unearthed his devil-stone, and fastening a silver chain to it, was about to carry it away and attach it to the cross, which was already loaded with the gifts of the little colony; but Marie took it from his hand.  “I will give it to the good priest myself,” she said.  “He may see fit to place it on the image of the Virgin in the church.”