an standing
upright in the plains--A procession of canoes winding down past Two
Mountains, the wild chant of the Indians joining with the romantic
songs of the voyageurs--A girl flashing upon the drawn swords of two
lads--King Louis giving his hand to one of these lads to kiss--A lady of
the Court for whom he might easily have torn his soul to rags, but for
a fair-faced English girl, ever like a delicate medallion in his eye--A
fight with the English in the Spaniards' country--His father blessing
him as he went forth to France--A dark figure taking a hundred shapes,
and yet always meaning the same as when he--Iberville--said over the
governor's table in New York, "Foolish boy!"--A vast stretch of lonely
forest, in the white coverlet of winter, through which sounded now and
then the boom-boom of a bursting tree--A few score men upon a desolate
northern track, silent, desperate, courageous; a forlorn hope on the
edge of the Arctic circle, with the joy of conquest in their bones, and
at their thighs the swords of men.

These are a few of the pictures, but the last of them had not to do with
the past: a dream grown into a fact, shaped by the music, become at once
an emotion and a purpose.

Iberville had now driven home the first tent-peg of a wonderful
adventure. Under the spell of that music his body seemed to grow larger.
He fingered his sword, and presently caught Perrot by the shoulder and
said "We will do it, Perrot."

Perrot got to his feet. He understood. He nodded and seized Iberville's
hand. "Bravo! There was nothing else to do," he replied.

De Casson lowered his violin. "What do you intend?" he asked gravely.

Iberville took his great hand and pressed it. "To do what you will
commend, abbe: at Hudson's Bay to win back forts the English have taken,
and get those they have built."

"You have another purpose," added De Casson softly.

"Abbe, that is between me and my conscience. I go for my king and
country against our foes."

"Who will go with you? You will lead?"

"Not I to lead--that involves me." Iberville's face darkened. "I wish
more freedom, but still to lead in fact."

"But who will lead? And who will go?"

"De Troyes, perhaps, to lead. To go, my brothers Sainte-Helene and
Maricourt, Perrot and a stout company of his men; and then I fear not
treble as many English."

The priest did not seem satisfied. Presently Iberville, with a winning
smile, ran an arm over his shoulder and added: "We cannot