“Excellent!” proclaimed Frontin. “Now, Crawford, pay attention and you shall learn how this white desert can be made to furnish all we lack. That is to say, provided your scruples against seizing English goods can be overcome.” Crawford shrugged and tamped down his pipe. “Self-preservation is the answer, my dear Frontin. I am at your service to command.” Frontin once more drew upon the table-top a crude outline of the iron promontory at whose tip they were harboured. He put his finger at a spot on the west coast. “Here, as I remember the map, is the English settlement of Old Perlican, in a very good harbour. It is about two leagues to the south of us. Opposite it, here on Conception Bay, is another settlement called Bay de Verde. How large these places are I do not know, but they are of some size, and are only a few miles apart. I suggest that you march straight down the coast to Old Perlican, which you can reach to-morrow night.” “Ah!” said Crawford ironically. “Then, without powder, and with eight men at my back, I am to attack this town?” There was a roar of laughter, which Frontin swiftly quelled. “Not at all. You are to use those brains of yours, my friend! If you have luck, you will find an English ship at either or both of those places. You will find plenty of sheep, cattle, and dried codfish. A prisoner or two, correctly persuaded, will give you full information. At the worst, you will find numerous fishing-sloops, excellent seaworthy craft, into which you may load supplies.” “And bring the whole coast down upon us?” “Bah! Spread abroad some lies. No one will ever suspect that we are harboured here.” “Very well,” said Crawford. “Get out the snowshoes, Bose, and pick your men. If we have no powder, we need not burden ourselves with fusils--so much the better! If we do not return for a week or so, Vanderberg, you have plenty of supplies for six men. If we do not return at all----” “But you will return,” said Frontin with assurance. “You cannot fail.” “Why so?” asked Crawford curiously. “Because you follow the Star of Dreams.” While the assembled men stared blankly at this, Crawford met the glittering eyes of Frontin, and in that gaze read an almost superstitious conviction. Somehow, he perceived, the Frenchman had been captivated by his words regarding the emerald star; and smiling at the absurdity of it, he rose and left the assemblage to draw lots for places in the expedition. After all, why not? Perhaps this star, which hung on its thong inside his shirt, and which was a good symbol of his rather vague strivings and longings after a freedom that did not exist, had been sent to him as an omen. His half-jesting utterance had become verity. “At least,” he thought as he looked up at the blazing stars above the black cliffs, “it is possible. Frontin is a man who reverences religion, and he believes it. I do not reverence religion, but I reverence God--and I think I believe it also. Well, we shall see! I accept the omen.”