“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.