“Saint-Castin and I got it together, in the old days,” said Frontin. “Now, consider! We want you with us, for sensible reasons which will presently appear. We came here for more than one reason--sensible reasons, which lie in the chapel yonder,” and he nodded his head toward a closed door. “The cap’n would plunder a chapel, but I won’t let him. If you will argue with us sensibly, and listen to reason, we may reach an understanding.” “That is entirely possible,” said Crawford, with a slow chuckle at the man’s air. Frontin rose. “Good! Take up the candle and come with us. We have time to look and talk, while those men of ours fill their bellies and guzzle wine.” Crawford stood up and took the candlestick from the table. He was at once amused, puzzled, and keenly interested by these two men. He saw that Vanderberg was a genial pirate, no more, no less--a brawny ruffian, who was for the moment in good humour, and who could pass swiftly to brute ferocity or brute lust. A man to be met with utmost force, primitive in all instincts, actuated only by an avid greed for gold or gain. Frontin was different--a Frenchman very likely, a man of high intelligence, capable alike of vicious cruelty and lofty ideals. Vanderberg was the arm that smote, Frontin was the brain that planned the blow. Of the two, the latter was the deadlier. Frontin crossed to the closed door as though he knew the place well, and, his hand on the latch, turned to look at Crawford. “You love the English more than the French?” Crawford shrugged. “I think not. One buys scalps, the other tortures prisoners. I deny them both.” “In order to deny, one must affirm.” “Precisely. I affirm--freedom, since you must have it so. I seek only the chance to be free, to look beyond the horizon, to leave wars and the quarrels of kings behind me.” “Your aim, then?” “To be myself,” said Crawford, a little wearily. Frontin flung open the door, a laugh on his lips. “The private chapel of Jean Vincent de l’Abadie, Baron de Saint-Castin. Your cap, cap’n; respect my religious scruples.” Vanderberg grunted, but took off his fur cap. Holding up the candle, Crawford gazed upon a small room at the farther end of which was an altar; there was nothing bare here, but all was a glow of colour. Pictures, silver candlesticks, a large crucifix, Portuguese reliquaries of walnut with oddly curved glass front and sides, white cloths broidered in gold. The room was bitter cold. “Keep those itching fingers quiet, cap’n,” said Frontin, and stepped forward. Crawford glanced at Vanderberg, who was staring with eyes that glowed lustfully. Frontin genuflected, then stepped to one of the reliquaries, and from it took a small object. With a shiver, he motioned back to the main room, and Crawford obeyed. The three men came back to the fireplace, Frontin closing the chapel door behind them. He then extended the object which he had brought from the chapel.