“I think not. One buys scalps, the other tortures prisoners. I deny them both.”
“In order to deny, one must affirm.”
“Precisely. I affirm—freedom, since you must have it so. I seek only the chance to be free, to look beyond the horizon, to leave wars and the quarrels of kings behind me.”
“Your aim, then?”
“To be myself,” said Crawford, a little wearily.
Frontin flung open the door, a laugh on his lips.
“The private chapel of Jean Vincent de l’Abadie, Baron de Saint-Castin. Your cap, cap’n; respect my religious scruples.”
Vanderberg grunted, but took off his fur cap.
Holding up the candle, Crawford gazed upon a small room at the farther end of which was an altar; there was nothing bare here, but all was a glow of colour. Pictures, silver candlesticks, a large crucifix, Portuguese reliquaries of walnut with oddly curved glass front and sides, white cloths broidered in gold. The room was bitter cold.
“Keep those itching fingers quiet, cap’n,” said Frontin, and stepped forward. Crawford glanced at Vanderberg, who was staring with eyes that glowed lustfully.