Crawford, who took small part in all this gaiety, tired of looking on and presently went up into the bows. He stood there smoking, his eyes watching the play of lights in the northern sky that fought the dim, sunny twilight in the south. There Iberville found him presently, when he strolled up with La Potherie, and clapped him heartily on the shoulder.
“What, dreaming of stars? Come and try our excellent Canary. To-morrow Martigny will return with the pinnace, we’ll land guns and men, and crack this nut of Nelson. Ha! Art thinking of the Star Woman, eh?”
“Admitted. The name lingers. Do you know more of her than Perrot told?”
“Nay, Perrot is the only white man who has ever seen her.”
Here Bacqueville de la Potherie struck in with avid interest. He was the avowed historian of the expedition, and was eager to learn of all things, while his open curiosity, his frankness and intelligence, endeared him to every one alike.
“Tell me about this Perrot—I have heard of him before this. And the Star Woman——”
Iberville obliged, and concluded with a laugh, “So, you see, our friend Crawford may yet set forth into the wilderness to seek her! Eh, Crawford? Why so gloomy, man?”
“Why so merry?” Crawford smiled. “It may be that I shall seek her. Who knows? I’m not gloomy, but your gay scene is not for me. I’m looking over the horizon.”
“You’ll die of that looking, one day.”
“Ay. And how better?”