“So Iberville is ahead of us, eh?” thought Crawford, and his lips twitched whimsically at the thought. “And he took a ship of provisions last night, at Bay de Verde! And what was that about Irish slaves? Poor devils of Jacobites sent over here and branded! Sink me if all this hasn’t a significant hint for my ears! M. d’Iberville, I salute you! Now, my Star of Dreams--lead on!” Pausing only to retrieve his tomahawk and take the fusil and munitions carried by the dead Canadian, he turned about and hastened on the back trail to rejoin his men. 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?”