He paused, puffing his pipe into a last flicker of life. Crawford gathered that in Deakin’s thought he was something of a wizard, and was being treated to confidences. This thought drew the ghost of a smile to his lips. He racked his brains for some means of turning the fact to his advantage, but found none. Deakin was obviously wrapped up in his own fancies, which were sincere enough, and now went on with his rambling talk. “So last year I sent messages to the Star Woman by the Injuns, bidding her come and meet me at my post this summer. Far away she is, somewhere to the south and west, but all the tribes know her name and fear it. Shall we have a look at her, Crawford? Ay, say ye so. I’ll have a smile from her sweet lips and tell ye what she’s about this minute. Most like she’s over on the other shore o’ the bay now, waiting for me. She’ll have had my message, sent from tribe to tribe until it reached her.” The giant laid aside his pipe. He shoved the heavy table so that it came under the arms of Crawford’s chair and under Crawford’s eye. Then, rising, he went to a locker and produced a shallow pewter dish. He set this on the table and reached down a flask, pouring into the dish a dankly glittering fluid which might have been black quicksilver, had there been such a thing. With the dish between himself and Crawford, Deakin now tugged his chair forward and reseated himself. “First I’ll have a look at what’s in the straits,” he said. “Put your eyes on the witch ink, Crawford, and tell me what ye see.” The Bostonnais stared down at the dark fluid, intent and absorbed, his huge frame bent over, his pronged beard sweeping the table, his immense hands outstretched and motionless. The monstrous incongruity of such a man engaged in so childish a task smote Crawford with a mad impulse to burst out laughing; but he checked it sternly enough. Whatever the man’s delusion might be, it held a deadly sincerity. Also, Crawford had heard in Boston that this Moses Deakin was famed for seeing visions, and now he perceived the explanation of the rumours. Crawford, being without any credulity and putting no faith in witchcraft or second sight, waited for what might come. It occurred to him that Deakin, if possessed of any desire to apply his magic, might well summon up a vision of the _Northstar_ at the moment, and save his scouts the work. Those who work wizardry, however, apparently eschew its more practical benefits. “Look!” Deakin suddenly started, and his big hands gripped. “Blood and wounds--a fifty-gun ship!” Crawford gazed down at the dark fluid and saw in it only the mirrored reflection of Deakin’s hairy visage. The other man, however, spoke with growing excitement.