“So ye thought to sneak into the bay and steal the Star Woman from me, eh?”
“No.”
“That’s a lie. Ha! Put steel into me, will ye? I say again, that’s a lie! South sea passage, eh? Ye knew well enough there was none. ’Twas the Star Woman ye wanted. I know when a man tells the truth, Crawford. It was a lie ye spoke about the south sea passage, and the truth about the green star. So ye were on your way to her, eh? There’s wizardry in that, or ye’d never ha’ found me on the ice. Aye, wizardry! And as ye said, the star brought ye here. It’s a warlock ye are, no doubt about it.”
Crawford was somewhat bewildered by all this, but the gaze of his captor settled and sobered him. Deakin sucked at his pipe, while his abnormally large eyes fastened upon his prisoner in a gaze that was oddly unwinking. Indeed, from time to time the lids, instead of drooping, lifted slightly and widened.
Once before had Crawford seen just such a stare as this, but then in the eyes of a woman. That was years ago in Ireland. He remembered the cold and rainy night, with Phelim Burke sitting across the campfire, and the old hag wandering in through the lines; the Wicklow Witch, they called her. He remembered how she had squatted by the fire, staring from him to Phelim Burke with that queer, momentary distending of her eyes; and she had talked of Granuaile and Red Hugh and Brian O’Rourke and others of the mighty dead, as though she knew them well. With an effort, Crawford forced himself back to the present situation. He spoke quietly.
“Is this honest treatment of a guest, Moses Deakin? I came freely with you——”
“Sink you and your fine words!” The Bostonnais breathed deeply, his wide nostrils flaring, and removed the pipe to scratch at his two-pronged tangle of grizzled beard. He reverted at once to his own chosen subject.
“That French buccaneer, Frontin, gave ye news of her, and the star brought ye here. Ay, that’ll be the way of it. I’ll do ye no harm, Crawford, nor the star neither, for I’ll need to walk carefully with warlocks, and can take no chances. A Cree wizard told me two year ago that no weapon or hand o’ man could kill me, and that I’d come to my end only by the gift of a woman. So I ha’ naught to do with women, unless it be the Star Woman. She always smiles at me, so I know she be right friendly and well-disposed.”
He paused, puffing his pipe into a last flicker of life. Crawford gathered that in Deakin’s thought he was something of a wizard, and was being treated to confidences. This thought drew the ghost of a smile to his lips. He racked his brains for some means of turning the fact to his advantage, but found none. Deakin was obviously wrapped up in his own fancies, which were sincere enough, and now went on with his rambling talk.
“So last year I sent messages to the Star Woman by the Injuns, bidding her come and meet me at my post this summer. Far away she is, somewhere to the south and west, but all the tribes know her name and fear it. Shall we have a look at her, Crawford? Ay, say ye so. I’ll have a smile from her sweet lips and tell ye what she’s about this minute. Most like she’s over on the other shore o’ the bay now, waiting for me. She’ll have had my message, sent from tribe to tribe until it reached her.”