“Ha! You have letters for me? Orders? Word from Placentia?” “No,” said Crawford. “I chanced to see the fleet on my way here, that is all. I did not stop at Placentia, for reasons which were excellent at the time----” But Iberville had lifted his head, his eyes darting to the trees around. Least of all men to be caught napping was this veteran of many a warpath, from Hudson Bay to Albany. His hand snatched at the tomahawk in his girdle. “Men around us!” he snapped. “Back, Bienville----” “My men,” said Crawford, and drew a great breath of relief. Then he laughed lightly. “And if they are not half-dead with snowshoe sickness, sink me!” He lifted his voice. “Ho, there! Sir Phelim? Bose? Come along to the fire and have a care what you do.” “Ay,” rejoined the heavy tones of Bose, from among the nearer trees. “But these snowshoes be killin’ the rogues--groan all ye want now, ye dogs!” The sound of muffled curses and groans that followed his words brought a laugh to Crawford’s lips, and even Iberville’s wide mouth twitched in a grim smile. Crawford now played his luck hard; by some miracle the game was all in his hands for the winning, and it was time for the final cast of dice which must win or lose. And, as he perceived in a flash, he must stake all on such a cast as would be thrown only by a fool, a madman--or a gentleman. Abandon Sir Phelim’s Irishmen he could not, yet they would not arrive until past midnight at earliest. He must dare Iberville, man to man, soul to soul, and his one desperate hope of success was to evoke from the man’s spirit its qualities of reckless abandon and high nobility--and trust to them. Knocking out his pipe and pouching it, Crawford stepped around the fire to Iberville, and spoke in a low voice. “I have a message for your ears alone. Above all, it must not reach Bienville. Will you step aside with me, so that we may speak in private?” Iberville flashed a glance at the boy, another glance at the surrounding trees. From these, the hulking figure of Bose was appearing. Crawford turned with a curt order. “Keep your men around the fire. Make no noise. Leave me to speak in peace with this gentleman.” “Ay,” said Bose, and stooped to get free of his snowshoes. “I am at your service, _monsieur_,” said Iberville quietly. “Come a few paces down the hillside.” There was a peculiar timbre in his voice. By some instinctive leap of the mind, Crawford knew instantly that Iberville had comprehended everything. “Careful!” he said. “Hear me out first, for the sake of the boy.” Iberville flashed him an astonished glance. They halted, a dozen paces from the fire, around which the men were now gathering. “Eh? For the love of the saints, do you read a man’s mind?”