# The Star Woman/Book 1/Chapter 3
### CHAPTER III
#### THE IMPORTANCE OF FORGOTTEN THINGS

IN the late afternoon, five men sat about a fire on the hillside north of Bay de Verde. Below them was a scene of destruction; the settlers having broken their parole, Iberville was laying waste the little place. Canadians, hardly to be told from Indians, were driving sheep and cattle to slaughter on the beach; the score of log-houses were being pillaged, and already two of the farther buildings were burning fiercely. The hapless settlers, such of them as had not already escaped to Carbonear Island, were being herded into fishing sloops for transportation to Placentia. Lying at anchor offshore was a goodly bark of over sixty tons, just from England; she was laden deep with stores, and by the gleam of her canvas and the scarcely battered paint, was brand new. She was schooner rigged.
The five men who had gathered about their fire, trees closing them in on three sides, had obviously participated in the sack of the place. Portions of a butchered sheep were cooking at the fire. Four of the men, busy replacing filthy rags with looted garments, were shaggy of hair and beard, pinched and starving of countenance, and had something the air of wild beasts as they pawed over heaps of stolen articles.
The fifth man was different. He was prematurely grey, his haggard face was drawn with suffering both mental and bodily, and in his forehead had been seared an undistinguishable brand. Yet he seemed of a higher intelligence than the others, who treated him with a certain respect; and having changed his rags for good clothes, he was at work with knife and broken mirror, trimming his wild grey beard into some neatness. One presently observed that he seemed different from the others because of an undeniable cleanliness, which the other four obtrusively lacked.
"Victory and blessings!" exclaimed one of the four, staring down at the scene below. "If we had fusils or pikes, and a garran to each one of us for riding, and Phelim na Murtha yonder for the leading of us, it would be plague to the Saxon!"
"True for you," said another, speaking likewise in Irish. "With the knowledge there is with us of this accursed country, and the others of us who are elsewhere, it's a fine stroke here and there we could lay down! Do we join the Frenchmen, Phelim?"
Thus addressed, the grey-haired man lifted his head and regarded the four. In his eyes one saw that his spirit remained unbroken, though his body might be far spent.
"Facies ut tua est voluntas," he murmured in Latin, then smiled. "Nay, lads! Join them and gain freedom. As for me, I am broken in body and my right leg will never lose its limp, and the hair is grey that should be black, and the forehead branded—nay! I shall get a sword, and go to Carbonear Island and land among the English, and die there after a last stroke at them."
At this, a voice came out of the trees.
"Well said, Sir Phelim Burke of Murtha!"
The four men sat staring around, dumfounded. But Phelim Burke sprang to his feet, a wild light in his face, his hands all a-tremble.
"Who called me? What voice is that?" he cried out. "I used to know that voice——"
"D'ye remember Boyne Water, and the king who was a coward, Phelim? And who it was called him coward to his face, eh?"
Out from the nearer trees strode Crawford, laughing a little as he gazed on the five of them. Now Sir Phelim uttered a great cry.
"Harry Crawford—is it mad I am, or a ghost?"
"Try this," and Crawford, leaving his snowshoes, came over the trampled snow with hand extended.
The two men gripped.
"Gad, Phelim, what a meeting is this! All friends here, eh? This is good enough. Tell 'em to down knives before they smite me."
Phelim Burke excitedly addressed the four, who were closing in on Crawford, and they sheepishly relaxed.
"Harry, Harry, this is like a dream!" cried Sir Phelim, tears standing in his eyes. "Two years we've been slaves in this land, wild beasts of burden—art with Iberville?"
"Devil a bit," and Crawford laughed. "Nor, as I gathered from your speech—though I've forgotten the Gaelic in large part—are you. I've a pirate craft hidden up the coast. Will you and these men join me, Phelim?"
"Ay, to hell and back!" said Sir Phelim promptly. "I'll answer for them. But I'm a broken man——"
"Don't be a fool," snapped Crawford. "Listen, now! We've small time for talk, since the afternoon is wasting. Is Iberville himself down yonder?"
"Ay, and forty devils of Canadians."
"They are burning the place—there's smoke from another house." Crawford's gaze swept the little harbour. "D'ye know when they are leaving?"
"Not until morning."
"Excellent! I need men, Phelim. Five of you here—can we get any more near by?"
Sir Phelim questioned his four. These, all of them Sea Burkes out of Galway and veterans of the Irish wars who had been taken prisoner and shipped to Newfoundland as slaves, were eager enough to follow Crawford, the more as he was an old friend and companion in arms of Sir Phelim, whom they loved. They said that a number of Irish were roving the woods, and several were thought to be at Old Perlican, to which place a detachment of Canadians had departed, with intent to give it a like fate with that of Bay de Verde.
Crawford whistled, and in came Bose from his concealment among the trees.
"Here are five of our fresh men, Bose, and down yonder the ship awaiting us. Go back to where the men are camped, set out a guard or two against roving Canadians, and after dark bring them on to this spot. Off with you! Now, Phelim, would it be possible for two of your men to cover the six miles to Old Perlican, rouse up any of their comrades whom they may find, and be back here before dawn?"
At this, Phelim Burke laughed as he had not laughed for many a month.
"Lad, these Irish can outrun horses! And with freedom awaiting them, what can they not do? They'll be back an hour past midnight, I promise you. One to Old Perlican, the other three to roam the woods. Iberville has released us all and offered us refuge in Canada, but we'll ship with you."
The four Irish, waiting only to catch up their half-cooked meat from the fire and bear it off to eat as they went, departed hastily. Left alone, Crawford and Sir Phelim settled down by the fire to bring old friendship up to date.
Phelim Burke na Murtha had seen hard fate—his family was wiped out, he himself had been racked and tortured, and the two years here in Newfoundland in bestial slavery to masters who knew no pity had all but finished him; yet the spirit burned strong within him. He nodded soberly to Crawford's almost defiant declaration of freedom.
"Ay, Harry, I'm with you. The world's burned out for me, and I've no heart for the vain mockery that once we loved. Throw all the stars into the bowl of night and pluck one out, and follow it; then, lad, if you'll be burdened with a broken Irisher who seats mad whims higher at table than sense——"
Suddenly Crawford, putting a hand under his shirt, held before Burke's amazed eyes the emerald jewel.
"Here's your star, Phelim—Star of Dreams it's named, and I'll live or die by it!"
He started up, pointed to the cove below.
"Look, man, look! There go more houses to the flames. You're certain Iberville will stay here the night? Then why send the buildings roaring?"
"He'll stay, for he has to await the party back from Old Perlican. As for houses, it's little those wild Canadians care for roofs over their heads, lad! Faith, ye should ha' seen Iberville and his men sweep over that English bark at daybreak, against cannon and musketry! It's fighters they are, lad. Beside them the French are fools."
As the sunset drew on, Crawford heard how Iberville and his six-score Canadian rovers had wiped the Newfoundland settlements out of existence, yet doing it with no needless slaughter. They had come overland from Placentia in the dead of Winter and struck the east coasts like a thunderbolt, nor could the scattered settlements resist them, though there were some hundreds of hunters to swell the ranks of the settlers. The impregnable island of Carbonear alone held them at bay, while those who escaped had fled to Bonavista in the north, which Iberville would attack ere the snows melted.
Crawford in turn told Sir Phelim his own story, and that of the Star of Dreams, and the darkness came upon them while they talked, with the burned houses below glowing as red patches against the star-glistening snow.
"If we can carry off that bark," said Sir Phelim, a new ring to his voice, "then I'll ha' faith in your Star of Dreams, Harry! She's loaded to the gunnel with supplies of all kinds, carries three twelve-pounders and as many culverins, and Iberville has put aboard her a good share of the new-killed meat and the captured cod. What a prize she'd be for destitute men! But they'll have a guard aboard her, and how could we reach her?"
"That's to find out," said Crawford. "They'll not suspect you, Phelim—could ye not find out their dispositions, and where the boats lie on the shore?"
Sir Phelim nodded and rose. He departed limping, by reason of a broken leg that had knit poorly, and Crawford stared after his vanished figure with sorrowing gaze.
"Devil take all kings!" he muttered. "There goes a better man than any of the Stuart breed he has fought for—yet at forty Phelim Burke is an old man of seventy! And down yonder honest settlers are driven forth and good Canadians are risking life and limb—murder is done and steel cleaving flesh—for what? For the pride of besotted fools who wear gilt crowns. I'll fight, sink me if I don't, but it'll be for my own hand, for my own life, for my own free pleasure. Ay, my Star of Dreams, lead the way! We'll go over the horizon together."
He built the fire up afresh, careless whether it were seen by the French below, and, taking out his pipe, smoked in thoughtful reflection. In throwing off all shackles of allegiance, in declaring his quest of freedom, he knew well that he made of himself nothing better than an outlaw; he had no intention, however, of stalking up and down the haunts of men and vaunting himself. He cared nothing for the eyes of other men—he was questing that which would answer to the inner man alone.
One thing he forgot—that every act committed in this world, whether for good or ill, brings a certain reckoning in its train. And now there was upon him the reckoning of an act which he had already forgotten.
The night was warm, the snow-crust was melting, and though the stars were out there was rain in the air. Crawford, as he sat before the crackling fire, heard no sound whatever until a voice sounded at his very elbow in French.
"Do not move, monsieur! My brother wishes to ask you a question."
Crawford glanced around, could see nothing, but caught the click of a pistol at cock. Without sign of his surprise, he took the pipe from his lips and laughed shortly.
"Greetings, mon ami! You have somewhat the advantage of me. Since I am prejudiced against speaking with unseen friends, may I suggest that you advance without fear?"
A somewhat boyish laugh sounded softly, but it died out into ominous words.
"Your pardon, monsieur! This is an affair in which I have no share, save that of curiosity—and compellance. My brother Pierre-Jean Beovilh, the great war-chief of the Abnakis, desires to ask you a question."
While these words sounded at the elbow of Crawford, a man stepped into the circle of firelight opposite him and came to a halt. Crawford gazed curiously at the visitor, not betraying the dismay which seized upon him; he saw a tall Indian, who had flung aside his garments and stood naked to the waist, painted and feathered, the features repulsively ugly and ferocious. As he stared at the Abnaki, the latter spoke to him curtly and without any of the usual preliminaries, in very good French.
"Who are you, who hold in your hand the sacred calumet of the Abnaki, which has a home in the lodge of my brother Saint-Castin at Pentagoet?"
And Crawford realized that the stone pipe in his hand was one which had been taken from the mantel of Saint-Castin, where pipes had stood racked.
Inspecting the war-chief, at whose belt hung fresh scalps, Crawford took his time about responding. Suddenly piecing together what he had previously learned and what Phelim Burke had been telling him, he comprehended his acute peril.
This Pierre-Jean Beovilh had come from Acadia to join Iberville's raiders, was the highest Abnaki chief, and belonged to the now destroyed clan of the Caniba. Saint-Castin, by his marriage to a red princess and his unsanctioned union with many other ladies of colour, had constituted himself a sort of vicar-general to the Abnakis. It was highly probable that the sacred relics of the Caniba clan had been deposited with him for safe-keeping, and that this white stone calumet was one such relic, profaned by Crawford's usage.
Now, knowing himself trapped, Crawford took the one open trail—that of audacity. He must know with whom he dealt, for the greatest danger was that the whole Canadian force would be brought upon him. One shot, one yell, would bring them.
"In the cabanes of the Mohawk clan of the Iroquois I am known as The Eagle," he said calmly. There was truth in this, though he had never visited the elm-bark lodges of his Mohawk friends. "The Eagle does not talk with cowards who fear to show themselves. Let my red brother call his French friend out into the light."
At the Mohawk name, the Abnaki chief started slightly. Then, answering Crawford's challenge, another figure stepped from the shadows, pistol cocked. Crawford was astonished, first to perceive that it was a boy of sixteen, and second, by the aspect of this boy. He was handsome as an Apollo, long brown curls framing his perfect features and despite his youth there was a certain air of dignity and command in his countenance. His eyes glinted hard at Crawford as he spoke in French, using the redskin phraseology.
"My white brother has a Mohawk name, but he is not a Mohawk; he speaks with the French tongue, but he is no Frenchman. Let him speak. I am Le Moyne de Bienville."
Bienville—brother to Iberville! Crawford could not repress his astonishment as he regarded this boy of sixteen, accompanying veteran wood-rovers on a raid so perilous and even desperate. And reading the look, Bienville's boyish pride instantly resented it.
"Speak!" he snapped angrily. "Is The Eagle a woman, that he fears to speak to warriors?"
The Abnaki chief, hand on knife, watched Crawford with unwinking gaze.
"The Eagle looks at the sun and does not blink," and Crawford's rare smile leaped out, so that the boy's anger vanished instantly under the implied compliment. "But The Eagle has been asked a question by this snapping cur. The Eagle did not know that the Abnakis had a war-chief; he thought they were women, whom the French Mohawks protected from the wrath of the Iroquois nation. Now let this Caniba dog, whose clan is only a memory among the Abnaki nation, gaze upon this coat which The Eagle wears. Let his eyes rest upon these moccasins. He has often been in the lodge of Saint-Castin; perhaps he will recognize them."
The Abnaki, whose coppery breast was heaving with rage at these words, spat reply.
"They belong to my brother Saint-Castin."
At this, Bienville started slightly and watched Crawford in astonished speculation. The latter puffed again at his pipe, then spoke quietly, deliberately.
"Then let the Abnaki dog go and ask Saint-Castin for an explanation. Or, since he is a woman and a snapping cur at French heels, let him summon his Canadian friends to make The Eagle a prisoner."
Now the fury of the war-chief burst all bounds.
"The war-chief of the Abnakis does not need Canadians to help him lift the scalp of a thieving Englishman, who calls himself by a Mohawk name and speaks the French tongue!"
Bienville, perhaps comprehending Crawford's purpose, attempted to interpose, but the furious chief turned upon him with a flat demand that he keep silent.
"This English thief has insulted me and holds in his hand the sacred calumet. This is not a matter for Canadians. His scalp is mine, and I claim it!"
Then, whirling upon Crawford, the chief whipped out a knife.
"Give me your scalp, English thief! It is mine."
Now Bienville stood silent and perplexed, not knowing who Crawford might be, and astounded at his having come recently from Pentagoet; he could place Crawford for neither friend nor enemy. And Crawford, knowing that he must prevent any summons to the Canadians, took instant advantage of the boy's perplexity.
"Keep out of it, Bienville," he said rapidly, as he rose to his feet. "I have a message for Iberville which is imperative." Then he looked at the Abnaki chief and smiled frostily. "Your manitou has deserted you," he said, using the word esprit which translated the Indian term. "At the name of the Iroquois your manitou trembles and is afraid. That is a woman's scalp at your belt, Caniba dog. Look, how your manitou causes it to shake and quiver with fright!"
For an instant the fury-red gaze of the chief dropped to the silky scalp at his waist—and in that instant Crawford was upon him. But his moccasins slipped in the soft snow around the fire; the blow failed, and Crawford, unable to regain balance, fell headlong.
Like a snake uncoiling in stroke, the Abnaki leaped.
Crawford twisted on his side in the snow, by a miracle of dexterity evading the knife-blow, but he could not evade the crushing weight of the redskin, which pinned him down. He drove up blindly and desperately with his own knife. The blade slid home in flesh, then the haft was jerked from his hand as the Abnaki writhed up, only slightly hurt.
For an instant Crawford, helpless to move, knew himself lost. The chief was kneeling upon him, knife flashing up for the finishing stroke; with a grunt, the redskin brought it down for Crawford's breast. The blow went true—but the point swerved, turned sharply aside, glanced from Crawford's ribs into the ground.
The Star of Dreams had intervened.
"My manitou is strong," panted Crawford, and threw out his strength.
Astonished and dismayed by the happening, disconcerted by those words, the Abnaki was caught in relaxation. He swung sidewise, then Crawford had him by knife-arm and throat and dragged him down in deadly embrace.
Through the snow they plunged, bodies interlocked in a desperate grip, rolling over and over, while to one side watched the eager-faced Bienville, lowered pistol forgotten. Crawford knew himself the better man at this game, feeling the throat-tendons of the redskin yield to his iron fingers; but at the same time he felt the chief's left hand leave his arm and go down for the tomahawk at girdle. Then, the heat of the fire close at hand, he hurled himself sidelong, dragged the Indian over him, thrust that hideously painted head and torso into the flames and embers of the blaze.
War-chief or not, a low cry of mortal anguish escaped the Abnaki, and his arms flew out. Crawford, rising to his knees, drove a fist into the painted visage, then struck once more, this time more carefully. The Abnaki relaxed, senseless, and Crawford dragged his inert body back from the fire.
"A stout rascal, egad!" he exclaimed, panting for breath. "I should put the steel into him—but, unhappily, I have convictions against murder, and I cannot conceive of any immediate use to which I might put his scalp lock. You may have his life, Bienville; I imagine that it is of some value to you and your brother. By the way, the priming has fallen out of that pistol. Better look to it."
Bienville, wide-eyed at the scene, glanced at his pistol, laughed, and thrust it into his girdle. He stared at Crawford in mingled admiration and perplexity.
"You are an Englishman, yet no enemy? You have come from Saint-Castin? What did you say about a message?"
Crawford chuckled.
"Ay, for Iberville. Your pardon, monsieur, one moment——"
As he stood, he had discerned a figure hovering outside the firelight, and knew it for that of Phelim Burke. He beckoned, his mind racing furiously as he stood there; could he handle Bienville aright, everything was won—otherwise all was lost.
"Come along, Phelim, and put up the knife," he said, laughing. "Sieur de Bienville, I think you have seen Sir Phelim Burke before, since your force freed him from bondage."
Phelim limped forward.
"Shall I dirk the lad?" he asked in Irish, though anxiously.
"No," said Crawford, while Bienville, divided between startled alarm and perplexity, stared again. "Go and bring up my men, quickly! They must be close by. Bring them quietly."
Sir Phelim, ready to use his knife if need were, yet relieved that it was not demanded, went limping off into the darkness. Bienville suddenly turned on Crawford with a curt demand.
"Who in the name of the saints are you, monsieur? An Irishman, by your words with that poor fellow. If you have a message for my brother, why have you not delivered it to him instead of sitting here on the hillside?"
"All in good time," and Crawford, with a whimsical laugh, waved his hand. "Will you accept a seat at my fire? I want to finish my smoke, and must keep an eye on this red rascal lest he come awake and knife me unexpectedly."
"I have not thanked you for your mercy to him," said Bienville, reluctantly seating himself. "It was well done, monsieur. I should have been sorry to pistol you had you slain him, for he is a great man among the Abnakis. By what miracle did you escape his knife? I saw the blow fall full——"
Crawford filled and lighted his pipe with a brand, then put a hand to his shirt and through the gaping rent showed the glittering Star of Dreams, now marked with a dent in the soft virgin gold, and Bienville exclaimed at the smear of blood.
"It's nothing—a scrape of the skin," said Crawford lightly. He was fighting for time now, knowing well that he had a young lion to deal with if he made one false move. "It was a stroke of ill-luck that made your Abnaki recognize that pipe. I helped myself from Saint-Castin's mantel rack, never dreaming that one pipe was more than another."
Bienville laughed boyishly.
"I should have liked to hear Saint-Castin curse when he discovered which one you had taken! Then you have come by way of Placentia, eh? Heard you anything of the fleet from France? My brother Serigny was to bring a fleet which the king promised to give Pierre——"
Crawford remembered the French sail of the line they had raised off the Banks.
"The ships are at Placentia now," he said, "though my message does not deal with them. But your pardon, monsieur. My name is Crawford, and I was formerly an officer of his Majesty of St. Germains. At present I am following my star of destiny. The Irish gentleman whom you just now beheld is an old friend——"
At this instant the Abnaki chief uttered a low groan and moved slightly. Crawford swiftly turned, picked up some of the rags that the Irish had discarded, and with these he knelt above the chief, binding the latter firmly and gagging him to boot. A crunch of snow caused him to look up—and he saw a tall figure come into the circle of light.
"Ten thousand devils!" exclaimed a rich, vibrant voice. "What's this, Bienville? You and the chief flitting off after dark—who is this man?"
Crawford rose, and his heart sank. What a scurvy trick of fate, when all was in his hands so neatly! For, though the newcomer was garbed as any other woods-loper, Crawford did not need to be told that he was facing Pierre le Moyne, Sieur d'Iberville.
"This, my brother," said Bienville hastily, "is the Sieur Crawford. He has come from Pentagoet with a message from Saint-Castin. The war-chief quarrelled with him, and he bested the chief in fair fight and spared his life."
Crawford scarce listened, for he was staring at Iberville, yet seeking past the latter with every sense acutely strained. Incredible as it seemed, there was no one else; Iberville had come alone, perhaps to discover what Bienville and the Abnaki were doing at this hillside blaze. For Iberville, having lost more than one brother at his very side in border raids, cherished most tenderly this youngest scion of the Le Moyne stock.
Energy radiated from the man who stood surveying Crawford. Those masterful eyes, so wide-set in his head, those delicate lines of brow and nostril and lip, that great jutting beak of a nose, long upper lip, heavy oval jaw—all of these spelled the man within, impatient of restraint, reckless of obstacles, daring heaven or hell on a cast of the dice. No half-way man was Iberville, and showed it.
"And the fleet's at Placentia!" broke out Bienville suddenly. "Serigny has come!"
Now Iberville started, and a sudden flash gleamed in his eyes.
"Ha! You have letters for me? Orders? Word from Placentia?"
"No," said Crawford. "I chanced to see the fleet on my way here, that is all. I did not stop at Placentia, for reasons which were excellent at the time——"
But Iberville had lifted his head, his eyes darting to the trees around. Least of all men to be caught napping was this veteran of many a warpath, from Hudson Bay to Albany. His hand snatched at the tomahawk in his girdle.
"Men around us!" he snapped. "Back, Bienville——"
"My men," said Crawford, and drew a great breath of relief. Then he laughed lightly. "And if they are not half-dead with snowshoe sickness, sink me!"
He lifted his voice.
"Ho, there! Sir Phelim? Bose? Come along to the fire and have a care what you do."
"Ay," rejoined the heavy tones of Bose, from among the nearer trees. "But these snowshoes be killin' the rogues—groan all ye want now, ye dogs!"
The sound of muffled curses and groans that followed his words brought a laugh to Crawford's lips, and even Iberville's wide mouth twitched in a grim smile. Crawford now played his luck hard; by some miracle the game was all in his hands for the winning, and it was time for the final cast of dice which must win or lose. And, as he perceived in a flash, he must stake all on such a cast as would be thrown only by a fool, a madman—or a gentleman. Abandon Sir Phelim's Irishmen he could not, yet they would not arrive until past midnight at earliest. He must dare Iberville, man to man, soul to soul, and his one desperate hope of success was to evoke from the man's spirit its qualities of reckless abandon and high nobility—and trust to them.
Knocking out his pipe and pouching it, Crawford stepped around the fire to Iberville, and spoke in a low voice. "I have a message for your ears alone. Above all, it must not reach Bienville. Will you step aside with me, so that we may speak in private?"
Iberville flashed a glance at the boy, another glance at the surrounding trees. From these, the hulking figure of Bose was appearing. Crawford turned with a curt order. "Keep your men around the fire. Make no noise. Leave me to speak in peace with this gentleman."
"Ay," said Bose, and stooped to get free of his snowshoes.
"I am at your service, monsieur," said Iberville quietly. "Come a few paces down the hillside."
There was a peculiar timbre in his voice. By some instinctive leap of the mind, Crawford knew instantly that Iberville had comprehended everything.
"Careful!" he said. "Hear me out first, for the sake of the boy."
Iberville flashed him an astonished glance. They halted, a dozen paces from the fire, around which the men were now gathering.
"Eh? For the love of the saints, do you read a man's mind?"
"Desperation, my dear Iberville, breeds miracles, as you should know." Crawford spoke lightly, swiftly, for desperation was indeed driving him. "It is true that I have just come from Pentagoet, where I had the pleasure of looting the establishment of Baron de Saint-Castin. Bienville was a trifle hasty in jumping at conclusions, for the message that I bring you is from—myself. I am, by force of necessity, compelled to act the part of a pirate. Those men of mine, and others awaiting me on the coast, are destitute. Now, in this harbour below us there is an excellent ship, heavily laden with all things; and I'm going to have that ship. I think it is in your mind to tomahawk me, rescue your brother from a situation which might prove embarrassing to him, and summon your Canadians. But, I beg of you, postpone this action until you hear me out. To tell the truth, I've had a devil of a wrestling match with your Abnaki chief, and I'm still a trifle short of breath."
Iberville burst into a laugh, compounded of anger and amusement. "My faith, monsieur! I believe that you're a madman."
"I might agree with you," said Crawford whimsically, "and that would prove me sane! As it happens, Iberville, I have no quarrel with you or with Frenchmen. Indeed, several of my men yonder are from French Hispaniola. Nor have I any intention of pirating French commerce. The plain facts of the case are that you got ahead of me by a few hours, in capturing yonder bark, and now I must insist that you hand her over to me."
"I am not in the habit of yielding up what I have seized," said Iberville coldly.
"Precisely. Therefore, I would point out to you that the situation offers a most interesting opportunity of giving a quid pro quo. First consider, my dear Iberville, that habits are things which none of us like to break, but which all of us must sometime break unless they are to master us."
Iberville chuckled at that, and Crawford continued swiftly.
"Then consider, I pray you: Item, I am not in the habit of murdering prisoners, or of shooting down boys. Item, those buccaneers who obey me are in the habit of doing both things. You perceive the obvious exchange? If you break your habit of keeping what you have seized, those pirates of mine will then break their habit of murdering; that is to say, if you turn over the bark to me, the Abnaki chief and Bienville go free. But if you refuse to break this habit of yours, then I am unhappily compelled to break my own habit—in effect, to kill the Abnaki and also your brother. The chief's blood would not trouble my conscience in the least, while I know that you would go to great lengths to avoid his death, as a matter of policy toward your Indian allies; yet I confess that I would kill Bienville with the greatest of reluctance."
"Why, you cursed philosopher-pirate, you couldn't touch him!" exclaimed Iberville, laughing amusedly. "Devil take you, come and join me! I like you, Monsieur Crawford. You shall have a royal commission under me, and I'll grant amnesty to your pirates and free transportation to Boston or where they will. Eh?"
The offer was sincere and cordial, and Crawford regretfully shook his head.
"My dear Iberville, I have sworn to give no more allegiance to kings. I am going into the wilderness to seek freedom—north or west, as may be. The old ways of life are as an empty sheath, from which I have drawn the sword; and I go forward with the naked blade. I serve myself, I acknowledge no master, I seek no man's gold—but there! You'll be calling me a madman again."
"A madman? No." Iberville swept him with a keen glance, as they stood under the starlight. "My faith, man! Sometimes I myself am tempted—but never mind. Vive le roi! You've tasted freedom and I can't blame you, though I'm sorry you'll not accept my offer."
Iberville paused an instant. "Did you ever hear of the Star Woman?" he asked abruptly.
"No." Crawford was astonished by the question. "Who is she?"
"A fit subject for your investigations—beyond the horizon." A short laugh came from the other man, yet there was a lingering regret in his tone. "Perrot once told me about her; you know of Sieur Perrot the explorer, of course. A queen among the far western Indians, a great enchantress, a female jongleur. One of the Cree chiefs let slip something about her two years ago, when I was at the bay. Well, well, there is no time to talk of dreams! Come—what's your exact proposal to me, monsieur?"
Crawford dismissed the name of the Star Woman, though it had struck his fancy. Some Indian legend, beyond question.
"My terms are fairly obvious," he returned coolly. "I'm as good a man as you with the knife or tomahawk, so you'd not down me and get away with ease. Bienville is surrounded, yonder, and the Abnaki is bound. Now, you'll not favour me to save your own skin, but you'll do it to save the two over there. The bark is not worth so much to Canada as are those two lives."
"At a call from me," said Iberville reflectively, "my Canadians would put you all to the stake."
"Undoubtedly, but you would be in no position to enjoy the spectacle, I assure you!"
"True. Yet I am rather warm in the notion of taking that bark and her cargo into Placentia."
"And, my dear Iberville, I am most devilish warm in the necessity of having her myself. Egad, man! Do you want me to go down to Carbonear Island and head these English against you? They have no officers, no leaders, and are helpless, but if I undertake to lead them, I'll guarantee to cut you off from Placentia——"
Iberville broke into a laugh and clapped him on the shoulder.
"Monsieur Crawford, Satan take me if you're not a man after my own heart! You shall have the bark. My word upon it. Call your men and I'll give you boats to get aboard."
"I can't do it, Iberville. I've promised to wait here until after midnight for some of the escaped Irish slaves who are coming to join me."
"What?" exclaimed Iberville. "Faith, you can't expect to keep the three of us prisoners here until after midnight, without my voyageurs hacking at the hinges of hell to find us! Unless, of course, you propose to use us as hostages——"
"Not in the least," said Crawford quickly. "It will give me great pleasure if you'll take that Abnaki devil with you and keep him quiet until we get off. Bienville, of course, will know nothing of the entire matter; it remains between the two of us alone. If you will see to it that your men are off the bark, and that your Canadians do not interfere with us, we shall come down to the beach as soon as my Irish arrive, go aboard, and sail away. As you will perceive, it is all very simple."
Iberville stared at him for a moment.
"Satan fly away with me! Are you in earnest?"
"Eh? Why, of course! Do you find the proposal disagreeable?"
A short laugh broke from the Canadian.
"What assurance have you that I'll not lay an ambush at the shore and cut you off to the last man?"
"Every assurance in the world."
"What, then?"
"The fact that you are Iberville."
The other was silent a moment, then spoke softly.
"Monsieur Crawford, I offer you my most respectful homage. Shall we rejoin my brother?"
They turned back together to the fire. There Bienville was laughing heartily and exchanging jests with the buccaneers who, weary and cursing the snowshoes that had left them almost unable to hobble, were rubbing sore tendons. The Abnaki chief, conscious, was glaring up at Sir Phelim Burke, who was seated grimly beside him.
Crawford strode forward and cut the chief loose, and at a few words in Algonquin from Iberville, he stalked off into the darkness. Crawford checked his men with a gesture.
"Come, Bienville," said the tall Canadian, and swept off his hat. "Monsieur Crawford, I salute you. To our next meeting!"
The two figures disappeared. Sir Phelim stared after them, then lifted wondering eyes to Crawford.
"Hanam-an-diaoul! Is it a wizard ye are, Harry? What's happened, lad? What's happened, that ye let those three go——"
"Nothing's happened, Phelim, except that the Star of Dreams is shining fair for us," said Crawford.
Yet he sighed a little as he turned to tell the men of the ship that lay awaiting them, and in his heart there was a wish that some day he might again meet that tall Canadian, for he felt strangely drawn to the man.
Perhaps, for all his boasted quest of freedom, that offer of a commission under Iberville had been a sore temptation. And the name of the Star Woman lingered strangely in his memory.