Here Iberville would have spoken, but Perrot waved his hand. “De grace, a minute only. Monsieur Gering, the brave English lieutenant, is at Hudson’s Bay, and next summer he will go with the great William Phips--Tonnerre, what a name--William Phips! Like a pot of herring! He will go with him after the same old treasure. Boston is a big place, but I hear these things.” Usually a man of few words, Perrot had bursts of eloquence, and this was one of them. But having made his speech, he settled back to his tobacco and into the orator’s earned repose. Iberville looked up from the fire and said: “Perrot, you saw her in New York. What speech was there between you?” Perrot’s eyes twinkled. “There was not much said. “I put myself in her way. When she saw me her cheek came like a peach-blossom. ‘A very good morning, ma’m’selle,’ said I, in English. She smiled and said the same. ‘And your master, where is he?’ she asked with a fine smile. ‘My friend Monsieur Iberville?’ I said; ‘ah! he will be in Quebec soon.’ Then I told her of the abbe, and she took from a chain a little medallion and gave it me in memory of the time we saved her. And before I could say Thank you, she had gone--Well, that is all--except this.” He drew from his breast a chain of silver, from which hung the gold medallion, and shook his head at it with good-humour. But presently a hard look came on his face, and he was changed from the cheerful woodsman into the chief of bushrangers. Iberville read the look, and presently said: “Perrot, men have fought for less than gold from a woman’s chain and a buckle from her shoe.” “I have fought from Trois Pistoles to Michilimackinac for the toss of a louis-d’or.” “As you say. Well, what think you--” He paused, rose, walked up and down the room, caught his moustache between his teeth once or twice, and seemed buried in thought. Once or twice he was about to speak, but changed his mind. He was calculating many things: planning, counting chances, marshalling his resources. Presently he glanced round the room. His eyes fell on a map. That was it. It was a mere outline, but enough. Putting his finger on it, he sent it up, up, up, till it settled on the shores of Hudson’s Bay. Again he ran the finger from the St. Lawrence up the coast and through Hudson’s Straits, but shook his head in negation. Then he stood, looked at the map steadily, and presently, still absorbed, turned to the table. He saw the violin, picked it up, and handed it to De Casson: “Something with a smack of war,” he said. “And a woman for me,” added Perrot.