Crawford put out a hand to the pipe beside him, filled it with kinnikinnick from the bag, held it above the candle. He relaxed again in his chair, puffing, but his eyes went to the door and then he took the pipe from his mouth, listening. Those eyes of his were startling in their alertness--light-blue eyes that fairly stabbed. His wide lips smiled, as if at his own alarm. “The shore ice grinding, that’s all,” he murmured. “Folly to feel nervous here! I wish that Micmac rascal would bring the cold pasty he promised me. Wine on a stomach that has seen no food in two days is a hollow mockery.” Rising, Crawford crossed to the door and swung it open. He stood for a moment on the threshold, staring out at the night. Stars blazed in the dark sky. A dozen feet outside the house ran the black line of a palisade, broken by an open gate directly in front of the doorway. From where he stood, Crawford could see the abandoned lines of old Fort Pentagoet to one side, and beyond this the long white line of the ice-rimmed shore; Penobscot Bay was not frozen over, and the dark swishing of waves mingled with the creaky whine of trees and the grind of ice. “A lonely place for a baron of France!” said Crawford, puffing at his pipe. “Yet I wish he were here, with his Indian wives and his henchmen. Fiend take this solitude! I’ve had enough of it. Why couldn’t he leave more than one solitary Micmac on the place?” He shivered, turned, closed the door, and went back to his chair. He took his book and opened it--then his head lifted and he looked again at the door. He caught a new sound, the scrape of a stiff moccasin, a low groan, the fumble of stiff fingers at the latch. The door swung open. Into the room came an Indian, wrapped in furs, holding in both hands a great silver dish. He advanced a step into the room, kicked the door shut, stood motionless. While Crawford stared at him, a frightful expression of horror leaped across his brown face--then the dish fell from his hands, he pitched forward, lay outstretched. The long shagreen handle of a knife stood out from between his shoulder-blades. The knife must have caught him an instant before he opened the door. Crawford sat motionless. For a long instant the thing seemed incredible, uncanny, supernatural. He knew that except for this Micmac and himself, the establishment of Baron de Saint-Castin at the head of Penobscot Bay was temporarily deserted. No war-parties were afoot hereabouts; the year 1697 had opened with peace to Acadia, at least. Crawford had just come overland from Boston and knew that all was quiet. Then, abruptly, before Crawford could move, the door was again flung open and a man stood framed against the night, pistol in hand. He grinned at Crawford--a great figure whose clothes were white with ice-rime and snow, his bearded face massive, brutal. “Not a move, Saint-Castin!” rang out his voice. Crawford smiled. “Oh! I thought you were Saint-Castin!” he said. The other started.