“Satan fly away with me! Are you in earnest?”
“Eh? Why, of course! Do you find the proposal disagreeable?”
A short laugh broke from the Canadian.
“What assurance have you that I’ll not lay an ambush at the shore and cut you off to the last man?”
“Every assurance in the world.”
“What, then?”
“The fact that you are Iberville.”
The other was silent a moment, then spoke softly.
“Monsieur Crawford, I offer you my most respectful homage. Shall we rejoin my brother?”
They turned back together to the fire. There Bienville was laughing heartily and exchanging jests with the buccaneers who, weary and cursing the snowshoes that had left them almost unable to hobble, were rubbing sore tendons. The Abnaki chief, conscious, was glaring up at Sir Phelim Burke, who was seated grimly beside him.