“What is there so good as the face of an old friend!” said Perrot, with a little laugh. “You will drink with a new, and eat with a coming friend, and quarrel with either; but ‘tis only the old friend that knows the old trail, and there’s nothing to a man like the way he has come in the world.” “The trail of the good comrade,” said the priest softly. “Ah!” responded Perrot, “I remember, abbe, when we were at the Portneuf you made some verses of that--eh! eh! but they were good!” “No fitter time,” said Iberville; “come, abbe, the verses!” “No, no; another day,” answered the priest. It was an interesting scene. Perrot, short, broad, swarthy, dressed in rude buckskin gaudily ornamented, bandoleer and belt garnished with silver,--a recent gift of some grateful merchant, standing between the powerful black-robed priest and this gallant sailor-soldier, richly dressed in fine skins and furs, with long waving hair, more like a Viking than a man of fashion, and carrying a courtly and yet sportive look, as though he could laugh at the miseries of the sinful world. Three strange comrades were these, who knew each other so far as one man can know another, yet each knowing from a different stand-point. Perrot knew certain traits of Iberville of which De Casson was ignorant, and the abbe knew many depths which Perrot never even vaguely plumbed. And yet all could meet and be free in speech, as though each read the other thoroughly. “Let us begin,” said Iberville. “I want news of New York.” “Let us eat as we talk,” urged the abbe. They all sat and were soon eating and drinking with great relish. Presently the abbe began: “Of my first journey you know by the letter I sent you: how I found that Mademoiselle Leveret was gone to England with her father. That was a year after you left, now about three years gone. Monsieur Gering entered the navy of the English king, and went to England also.” Iberville nodded. “Yes, yes, in the English navy I know very well of that.” The abbe looked up surprised. “From my letter?” “I saw him once in the Spaniards’ country,” said Iberville, “when we swore to love each other less and less.” “What was the trouble?” asked the priest. “Pirates’ booty, which he, with a large force, seized as a few of my men were carrying it to the coast. With his own hand he cut down my servant, who had been with me since from the first. Afterwards in a parley I saw him, and we exchanged--compliments. The sordid gentleman thought I was fretting about the booty. Good God, what are some thousand pistoles to the blood of one honest friend!” “And in your mind another leaven worked,” ventured the priest. “Another leaven, as you say,” responded Iberville. “So, for your story, abbe.” “Of the first journey there is nothing more to tell, save that the English governor said you were as brave a gentleman as ever played ambassador--which was, you remember, much in Count Frontenac’s vein.”