Crawford rose, and his heart sank. What a scurvy trick of fate, when all was in his hands so neatly! For, though the newcomer was garbed as any other woods-loper, Crawford did not need to be told that he was facing Pierre le Moyne, Sieur d’Iberville.
“This, my brother,” said Bienville hastily, “is the Sieur Crawford. He has come from Pentagoet with a message from Saint-Castin. The war-chief quarrelled with him, and he bested the chief in fair fight and spared his life.”
Crawford scarce listened, for he was staring at Iberville, yet seeking past the latter with every sense acutely strained. Incredible as it seemed, there was no one else; Iberville had come alone, perhaps to discover what Bienville and the Abnaki were doing at this hillside blaze. For Iberville, having lost more than one brother at his very side in border raids, cherished most tenderly this youngest scion of the Le Moyne stock.
Energy radiated from the man who stood surveying Crawford. Those masterful eyes, so wide-set in his head, those delicate lines of brow and nostril and lip, that great jutting beak of a nose, long upper lip, heavy oval jaw—all of these spelled the man within, impatient of restraint, reckless of obstacles, daring heaven or hell on a cast of the dice. No half-way man was Iberville, and showed it.
“And the fleet’s at Placentia!” broke out Bienville suddenly. “Serigny has come!”
Now Iberville started, and a sudden flash gleamed in his eyes.
“Ha! You have letters for me? Orders? Word from Placentia?”
“No,” said Crawford. “I chanced to see the fleet on my way here, that is all. I did not stop at Placentia, for reasons which were excellent at the time——”
But Iberville had lifted his head, his eyes darting to the trees around. Least of all men to be caught napping was this veteran of many a warpath, from Hudson Bay to Albany. His hand snatched at the tomahawk in his girdle.
“Men around us!” he snapped. “Back, Bienville——”