“No.”
“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.