“I cannot sleep now, mother!” exclaimed the girl, slipping out of the berth and drawing the woollen cloak about her. “Let us go on deck awhile. Morning will come the more quickly so.” “Yes, to be sure. And I would look a last look on Grand Pré, if only on the flames of its dear roofs,” agreed the old woman, obediently smothering a deep yawn. In truth, now that things bade fair to work her will, she wanted nothing so much as a good sleep. But whatever Yvonne wanted was the chief thing in her eyes. The two went on deck, and huddled themselves under the lee of the cabin, for there was a bitter wind blowing, and the ship was too far from Grand Pré now to feel the heat of the conflagration. The roaring of it, too, was at this distance diminished to a huge but soft sub-bass, upon which the creaking of cordage, the whistling of the wind, the slapping of the thin-crested waves, built up a sort of bitter, singing harmony which thrilled Yvonne’s ears. The whole village was now burning, a wide and terrifying arc of flame from the Gaspereau banks to the woodland lying toward Habitants. Above it towered the chapel, a fixed serenity amid destruction. It held Yvonne’s eyes for a while; but soon they turned away, to follow the lit sails of the other ship, now fleeting toward the foot of Blomidon. At last, with a shiver, she said to her sleepy companion: “Come, mother, let us go back into the cabin and sleep, and dream what morning may bring to pass.” * * * * * That of all which morning should bring to pass nothing might be missed, Yvonne was up and out on deck at the earliest biting daylight. She found the ship already well past Blomidon, the vale of desolation quite shut from view. To west and north the sky was clear, of a hard, steely pallor. The wind was light, but enough to control the dense smoke which still choked the greater half of the heavens. It lay banked, as it were, sluggishly and blackly revolving itself along the wooded ridge that runs southward from Blomidon. Straight ahead, across a wintry reach of sea, sped the other ship, with all sail set. It seemed to Yvonne’s eyes that she was much farther ahead than the night before, and sailing with a dreadful swiftness. “Oh, we can never catch up!” she cried, pressing one hand to her side and throwing back her head with a half-despairing gesture. Mother Pêche, who had just come on deck, looked troubled. “We do certainly seem to be no nearer,” she agreed reluctantly. At this moment the captain came up, smiling kindly. He took Yvonne’s hand. “I hope you have slept, mademoiselle, and are feeling better,” he said. “Yes, monsieur, thanks to your great kindness,” answered Yvonne, trying to smile, “but is not the other ship getting very far ahead? She seems to sail much faster than we do.”