“Cut that off, therefore,” said Claire, turning. “I am not so childish as to love the pall we hang over our gowns and elbows. But the skirt is not too long if it be lifted by a girdle below the waist. Cut me out a rope of satin, Massawippa.” The hiss of a thick and rich fabric yielding to the knife could be heard behind her back. Massawippa presently lifted the plenteous fleece thus shorn, and pared away the border while the elder girl held it. Together they tied the border about Claire’s middle for a support, and over this pulled the top of her skirt in a pouting ruff. It was now sunrise. Having thus finished equipping themselves they took up each a load, Claire bearing her packet on the arm her surplus drapery had burdened, and when Massawippa had thrust both cast-off shoes and satin under a side of the rock they hurried on. XVII. JOUANEAUX’S HOUSE. THE sun had almost described his arc before Claire and Massawippa reached the extremity of the island. Massawippa could have walked two leagues in half the day, but wisely did she forecast that the young Frenchwoman would be like a liberated canary, obliged to grow into uncaged use of herself by little flights and pauses. Besides, Jouaneaux’s house would give them safe asylum until they crossed the river. “That must be his barn,” said Massawippa, pointing to a pile of hewed timbers, too far up the bank and too recently handled by man to be drift. They lay in angular positions, scarce an upright log marking the site of the little structure Jouaneaux had tried to erect for his granary. Two slim figures casting long shadows eastward on the clearing, the girls stood trying to discern in those tumultuous waters where the Ottawa came in or where the St. Lawrence’s own current wrestled around islands. The north shore looked far off, thick clothed with forests. Massawippa held her blanket out to canopy her eyes, anxiously examining the trackless way by which they must cross. “But the first thing is to find Jouaneaux’s house,” she said, turning to Claire. “I was thinking of that,” Claire answered, “and counting the stumps in rows of five. All this land is covered with stumps, Massawippa.” “He said the row of five nearest the water.” “Did he tell you how to enter?” “That I had no time to learn. But, madame, if a man went in and out of this underground house, surely you and I can do the same. Here be five stumps--the row nearest the river.” They went to the central stump. It had a nest of decayed yellow wood within, crumbled down by the tooth of the air, but probing could not make it hollow. “Perhaps he deceived you about his house,” said Claire. Massawippa met her apprehension with dark seriousness. “It would be the worst about the boat,” she replied. “I counted on that boat all day, so that I have not thought what to do without it.” [Illustration: “Massawippa held her blanket out to canopy her eyes.”]