Crawford, taking it, saw a five-pointed star six inches in diameter made of soft virgin gold. In the centre was set a large emerald, and other emeralds ran out to the points. Some were flawed, others were remarkably clear and deep in colour. “Old?” he asked. “A hundred years or so,” said Frontin. “From Peru.” Vanderberg shoved his bulk between them and clutched the star. He examined it greedily, breathing hoarsely, his piggish eyes glinting in the firelight. “This is no sacred thing!” he broke out accusingly. “I shall take it. You can have nothing to say about it. I swore to you that I would touch no sacred object----” “You mistake, my captain,” said Frontin, a sudden cold accent in his voice. “Turn it over and you will see the name of the Archangel Michael graven on the back. It was the belief that each archangel had his abode in a certain star, you understand. This was a votive offering. As such, it is sacred. Shall we argue the matter?” This question came icily. Frontin’s hand was at his belt; his eyes met the gaze of Vanderberg in sharply direct challenge. Then the laugh of Crawford cut in between them. “This theological argument would delight our friend Saint-Castin!” Vanderberg grunted and shoved the star at Frontin. “Take it, papist! Now tell him about it.” Frontin bowed, not without a certain courtliness. He turned to Crawford. “Once upon a time, I went to a certain place with Saint-Castin; on the Newfoundland coast. Indians led us. We found the wreck of an old Spanish ship, well-hidden, or rather, I found it. Saint-Castin was taken ill and could not go to the spot with me. I brought this back to him as a sample of what the wreck contained. Then some Boston fishing-sloops bore down on us, and we had to flee. Later, events drove me on the road of destiny. Saint-Castin was never able to find the spot where the wreck lies, without my help; and he did not have it. Now I am on my way to that place. I shall enrich Cap’n Vanderberg and his men. Come with us and you shall be enriched also. You perceive that our reasons for coming here were sensible. What do you say?” Crawford stood for a moment in thought. “Why this offer?” he responded at length. “Why are you so anxious to enrich me? That, as you must agree, is neither sensible nor reasonable.” Frontin laughed gaily. “No? Then listen. We have seventeen men including ourselves. They are scum of the Indies--negroes, branded men, escaped slaves. They suffer from cold and famine. We officers are two, or if you count Bose, three. We need one other man to keep control in our own hands. They will not go farther north, yet farther north we must go. They fear the French. They shrink from working a ship adrift with ice. But this place supplies us with food, wine, furs. On the Newfoundland coast we shall get cod in plenty; we may pick up an English ship or two, with luck. Is this sensible?” “Eminently so,” said Crawford. “You need me, it seems. Let’s smoke over it.”