At this, Phelim Burke laughed as he had not laughed for many a month.
“Lad, these Irish can outrun horses! And with freedom awaiting them, what can they not do? They’ll be back an hour past midnight, I promise you. One to Old Perlican, the other three to roam the woods. Iberville has released us all and offered us refuge in Canada, but we’ll ship with you.”
The four Irish, waiting only to catch up their half-cooked meat from the fire and bear it off to eat as they went, departed hastily. Left alone, Crawford and Sir Phelim settled down by the fire to bring old friendship up to date.
Phelim Burke na Murtha had seen hard fate—his family was wiped out, he himself had been racked and tortured, and the two years here in Newfoundland in bestial slavery to masters who knew no pity had all but finished him; yet the spirit burned strong within him. He nodded soberly to Crawford’s almost defiant declaration of freedom.
“Ay, Harry, I’m with you. The world’s burned out for me, and I’ve no heart for the vain mockery that once we loved. Throw all the stars into the bowl of night and pluck one out, and follow it; then, lad, if you’ll be burdened with a broken Irisher who seats mad whims higher at table than sense——”
Suddenly Crawford, putting a hand under his shirt, held before Burke’s amazed eyes the emerald jewel.
“Here’s your star, Phelim—Star of Dreams it’s named, and I’ll live or die by it!”
He started up, pointed to the cove below.
“Look, man, look! There go more houses to the flames. You’re certain Iberville will stay here the night? Then why send the buildings roaring?”
“He’ll stay, for he has to await the party back from Old Perlican. As for houses, it’s little those wild Canadians care for roofs over their heads, lad! Faith, ye should ha’ seen Iberville and his men sweep over that English bark at daybreak, against cannon and musketry! It’s fighters they are, lad. Beside them the French are fools.”