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“Stop!” cried Nataline, throwing open the little window. “If you dare to touch that door, I shoot.”

She thrust out the barrel of the rifle, and Marcel’s shot-gun appeared beside it. The old rifle was not loaded, but who knew that? Besides, both barrels of the shot-gun were full.

There was amazement in the crowd outside the tower, and consternation, and then anger.

“Marcel,” they shouted, “you there? MAUDIT POLISSON! Come out of that. Let us in. You told us–“

“I know,” answered Marcel, “but I was mistaken, that is all. I stand by Mademoiselle Fortin. What she says is right. If any man tries to break in here, we kill him. No more talk!”

The gang muttered; cursed; threatened; looked at the guns; and went off to their boat.

“It is murder that you will do,” one of them called out, “you are a murderess, you Mademoiselle Fortin! you cause the people to die of hunger!”

“Not I,” she answered; “that is as the good God pleases. No matter. The light shall burn.”

They heard the babble of the men as they stumbled down the hill; the grinding of the boat on the rocks as they shoved off; the rattle of the oars in the rowlocks. After that the island was as still as a graveyard.

Then Nataline sat down on the floor in the dark, and put her face in her hands, and cried. Marcel tried to comfort her. She took his hand and pushed it gently away from her waist.

“No, Marcel,” she said, “not now! Not that, please, Marcel! Come into the house. I want to talk with you.”

They went into the cold, dark kitchen, lit a candle and kindled a fire in the stove. Nataline busied herself with a score of things. She put away the poor little store of provisions, sent Marcel for a pail of water, made some tea, spread the table, and sat down opposite to him. For a time she kept her eyes turned away from him, while she talked about all sorts of things. Then she fell silent for a little, still not looking at him. She got up and moved about the room, arranged two or three packages on the shelves, shut the damper of the stove, glancing at Marcel’s back out of the corners of her eyes. Then she came back to her chair, pushed her cup aside, rested both elbows on the table and her chin in her hands, and looked Marcel square in the face with her clear brown eyes.

“My friend,” she said, “are you an honest man, un brave garcon?”

For an instant he could say nothing. He was so puzzled. “Why yes, Nataline,” he answered, “yes, surely–I hope.”

“Then let me speak to you without fear,” she continued. “You do not suppose that I am ignorant of what I have done this night. I am not a baby. You are a man. I am a girl. We are shut up alone in this house for two weeks, a month, God knows how long. You know what that means, what people will say. I have risked all that a girl has most precious. I have put my good name in your hands.”

Marcel tried to speak, but she stopped him.

“Let me finish. It is not easy to say. I know you are honourable. I trust you waking and sleeping. But I am a woman. There must be no love-making. We have other work to do. The light must not fail. You will not touch me, you will not embrace me–not once–till after the boat has come. Then”–she smiled at him like a sunburned angel– “well, is it a bargain?”

She put out one hand across the table. Marcel took it in both of his own. He did not kiss it. He lifted it up in front of his face.

“I swear to you, Nataline, you shall be to me as the Blessed Virgin herself.”

The next day they put the light in order, and the following night they kindled it. They still feared another attack from the mainland, and thought it needful that one of them should be on guard all the time, though the machine itself was working beautifully and needed little watching. Nataline took the night duty; it was her own choice; she loved the charge of the lamp. Marcel was on duty through the day. They were together for three or four hours in the morning and in the evening.