“I am called Iberville,” said the young man simply. Then: “My father and myself started from Quebec with good Nick Perrot, the coureur du bois--” “I know him too,” the governor interjected--“a scoundrel worth his weight in gold to your Count Frontenac.” “For whose head Count Frontenac has offered gold in his time,” answered Iberville, with a smile. “A very pretty wit,” said old William Drayton, nodding softly towards the girl, who was casting bright, quizzical glances at the youth over the back of the chair. Iberville went on: “Six days ago we were set upon by a score of your Indians, and might easily have left our scalps with them; but, as it chanced, my father was wounded, I came off scot-free, and we had the joy of ridding your excellency of half a dozen rogues.” The governor lifted his eyebrows and said nothing. The face of the girl over against the back of the chair had become grave. “It was in question whether Perrot or I should bear Count Frontenac’s message. Perrot knew the way, I did not; Perrot also knew the Indians.” “But Perrot,” said the governor bluffly, “would have been the letter-carrier; you are a kind of ambassador. Upon my soul, yes, a sort of ambassador!” he added, enjoying the idea; for, look at it how you would, Iberville was but a boy. “That was my father’s thought and my own,” answered Iberville coolly. “There was my father to care for till his wound was healed and he could travel back to Quebec, so we thought it better Perrot should stay with him. A Le Moyne was to present himself, and a Le Moyne has done so.” The governor was impressed more deeply than he showed. It was a time of peace, but the young man’s journey among Indian braves and English outlaws, to whom a French scalp was a thing of price, was hard and hazardous. His reply was cordial, then his fingers came to the seal of the packet; but the girl’s hand touched his arm. “I know his name,” she said in the governor’s ear, “but he does not know mine.” The governor patted her hand, and then rejoined: “Now, now, I forgot the lady; but I cannot always remember that you are full fifteen years old.” Standing up, with all due gravity and courtesy, “Monsieur Iberville,” he said, “let me present you to Mistress Jessica Leveret, the daughter of my good and honoured and absent friend, the Honourable Hogarth Leveret.” So the governor and his councillor stood shoulder to shoulder at one window, debating Count Frontenac’s message; and shoulder to shoulder at another stood Iberville and Jessica Leveret. And what was between these at that moment--though none could have guessed it--signified as much to the colonies of France and England, at strife in the New World, as the deliberations of their elders. CHAPTER II THE THREAT OF A RENEGADE