The four men sat staring around, dumfounded. But Phelim Burke sprang to his feet, a wild light in his face, his hands all a-tremble.
“Who called me? What voice is that?” he cried out. “I used to know that voice——”
“D’ye remember Boyne Water, and the king who was a coward, Phelim? And who it was called him coward to his face, eh?”
Out from the nearer trees strode Crawford, laughing a little as he gazed on the five of them. Now Sir Phelim uttered a great cry.
“Harry Crawford—is it mad I am, or a ghost?”
“Try this,” and Crawford, leaving his snowshoes, came over the trampled snow with hand extended.
The two men gripped.
“Gad, Phelim, what a meeting is this! All friends here, eh? This is good enough. Tell ’em to down knives before they smite me.”
Phelim Burke excitedly addressed the four, who were closing in on Crawford, and they sheepishly relaxed.
“Harry, Harry, this is like a dream!” cried Sir Phelim, tears standing in his eyes. “Two years we’ve been slaves in this land, wild beasts of burden—art with Iberville?”