Frontin genuflected, then stepped to one of the reliquaries, and from it took a small object. With a shiver, he motioned back to the main room, and Crawford obeyed. The three men came back to the fireplace, Frontin closing the chapel door behind them. He then extended the object which he had brought from the chapel.
Crawford, taking it, saw a five-pointed star six inches in diameter made of soft virgin gold. In the centre was set a large emerald, and other emeralds ran out to the points. Some were flawed, others were remarkably clear and deep in colour.
“Old?” he asked.
“A hundred years or so,” said Frontin. “From Peru.”
Vanderberg shoved his bulk between them and clutched the star. He examined it greedily, breathing hoarsely, his piggish eyes glinting in the firelight.
“This is no sacred thing!” he broke out accusingly. “I shall take it. You can have nothing to say about it. I swore to you that I would touch no sacred object——”
“You mistake, my captain,” said Frontin, a sudden cold accent in his voice. “Turn it over and you will see the name of the Archangel Michael graven on the back. It was the belief that each archangel had his abode in a certain star, you understand. This was a votive offering. As such, it is sacred. Shall we argue the matter?”
This question came icily. Frontin’s hand was at his belt; his eyes met the gaze of Vanderberg in sharply direct challenge. Then the laugh of Crawford cut in between them.
“This theological argument would delight our friend Saint-Castin!”
Vanderberg grunted and shoved the star at Frontin.