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.