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.