“White flag at her poop--a Frenchman! A ship o’ the line, a royal ship! There’s men aboard her; ay, the faces begin to come out now. What the Canadians doing aboard she? And a red Injun, and fine officers in gold lace. I’ll warrant the rogues are cold enough! And yonder’s her cap’n; a fine handsome man he is, and a boy alongside him, likely his brother----” Crawford sent an astonished glance to the fluid, but saw nothing. Could Deakin really be finding visions there? That man and boy--they must be Iberville and Bienville! He remembered now that Iberville had been awaiting ships from France---- “It’s Iberville!” he exclaimed. “Iberville and his fleet!” That name, so dreaded on the bay, smote the Bostonnais. Lifting his head, Deakin showed in wild and hairy countenance a sudden amazed awe. He thought Crawford, too, had seen the vision. “Warlock, wi’ the star at your breast--I knew it well enough!” he breathed hoarsely. “Iberville, is it? Then Moses Deakin goes not near the south o’ the bay this voyage. Perdition take him and his Frenchmen! He be no man, but devil incarnate. Nay, I’ll look no more at him, but shall call up the Star Woman. Set a name to her likewise, if ye can; sink me, Crawford, if ye have not more power than I at my own game. Warlock, indeed!” He lowered his face again and stared anew at the fluid. Crawford, realizing now how the man was ridden by superstition, tried vainly to discover some trick in the matter, for he refused to believe that Deakin saw real images. Perhaps the man knew that a French squadron was heading north. Perhaps the whole thing was a lie and a delusion, either deliberate trickery or self-deception on Deakin’s part. Perhaps there were no ships in the straits at all! That, indeed, was more likely than not. “Now I see her!” cried out Deakin. “Look! She’s standin’ at the door of a bark lodge--blood and wounds, what a woman she is, too! White woman, too--gold hair streaming all over her, with a star o’ blue stones on her breast----” Deakin was concentrated, tense, quivering with inward excitation, completely gripped by his own fantasy. Crawford could not but feel the infection. He peered down, staring at the dish, yet seeing in it only the reflection of those distended grey eyes. Through his brain raced the words that Iberville had said to him, that evening above Bay de Verde. A Spanish woman---- “Ay, she’s smiling at me! Put a name to her, ye warlock, if ye can!” “Her name’s Mariana,” said Crawford. Deakin caught his breath gustily, lifted wild eyes at Crawford, his wide nostrils flaring with each breath, his beard twitching; to doubt the terrible earnestness of the man was impossible. Then came abrupt wakening, sudden and swift return to sanity. From the deck overhead sounded a medley of shouts and trampling feet, the rise of excited voices. Steps thumped on the ladder, and into the cabin came the boatswain. Deakin looked at him with a growled oath.