50 OVER ON THE ISLAND . . . They might go over to the English . . . What will he do if it doesn't come? "Look again, Gauthier!" he urges. Still the melancholy answer, "Nothing, sir." Sixteen days . Eighteen days . "Nothing, sir," echoes the soldier, discouraged. Twenty days . . . and a sail! Impossible! It can't be. But it is. Can it really be true? The commandant is afraid to believe. It may not be the supply ship at all. It may be an English boat or a French merchant . . . Nearer the boat comes and still nearer. It is a French boat . . . The commandant is excited— but still uneasy. It might be a merchant . . . Saved! It is the supply boat! The commandant is delirious. Their presents! Their presents at last have come. The Indians crowd the shore to welcome the boat—and the presents. The commandant wastes no time, and the presents are distributed—powder, and shot, hatchets, bright trinkets . "Thank God!" murmurs the commandant. "Now they'll go!" But they don't. They hear the news, too. A son is born to the Dauphin of France. That calls for a celebration in honour of that son. Te Deum is sung in the church. They are all present—the French in their bright costumes, and the Indians, fresh in the glory of their war paint and newly acquired trinkets—to do honour to the new son. But that is only the beginning. A celebration calls for more than that. To the French garrison the night is hideous. But the Indians' only regret is that there