“You are an Englishman, yet no enemy? You have come from Saint-Castin? What did you say about a message?”
Crawford chuckled.
“Ay, for Iberville. Your pardon, monsieur, one moment——”
As he stood, he had discerned a figure hovering outside the firelight, and knew it for that of Phelim Burke. He beckoned, his mind racing furiously as he stood there; could he handle Bienville aright, everything was won—otherwise all was lost.
“Come along, Phelim, and put up the knife,” he said, laughing. “Sieur de Bienville, I think you have seen Sir Phelim Burke before, since your force freed him from bondage.”
Phelim limped forward.
“Shall I dirk the lad?” he asked in Irish, though anxiously.
“No,” said Crawford, while Bienville, divided between startled alarm and perplexity, stared again. “Go and bring up my men, quickly! They must be close by. Bring them quietly.”
Sir Phelim, ready to use his knife if need were, yet relieved that it was not demanded, went limping off into the darkness. Bienville suddenly turned on Crawford with a curt demand.
“Who in the name of the saints are you, monsieur? An Irishman, by your words with that poor fellow. If you have a message for my brother, why have you not delivered it to him instead of sitting here on the hillside?”