rously christened him "The Little King of Vimeu." One thing rankled
in his ambitious heart: king he could not be. Let him be as strong, as
intellectual, as popular as he might, Francis could always look down on
him from the throne.

Cartier, although a blunt seaman, had read the man's nature truly, and
in endeavouring to win him to his cause, had pointed out the opportunity
the New World would give him of reigning an absolute monarch over not a
province, but a continent of unlimited extent and wealth. Roberval, like
a fool gudgeon, caught at the bait, and had in his own mind fully
decided to try the venture. But to impress them with his importance he
had called De Pontbriand and La Pommeraye to this meeting to argue the
matter with them, and to convince them of the sacrifice he was about to
make for his country, and of his reluctance to leave old France.

Despite the vanity and ambition of the man, the enthusiasm, courage, and
will that De Roberval put into anything that he undertook were admirable
qualities, and as La Pommeraye stood looking into his steel-grey eyes,
and admiring his smooth high forehead and finely-chiselled mouth, he
felt that he was in the presence of a born leader of men.

Roberval acknowledged his greeting with a sternness of manner for which
Charles was hardly prepared.

"Monsieur is welcome to my house," he said frigidly. "But why need he
have taken so long to decide upon entering? I saw you," he added, fixing
his keen glance on the young man, "pass twice on the other side of the
street."

The words were simple enough, but the tone told La Pommeraye that there
was a world of meaning in them. If he could be ready with the sword he
could be equally ready with the tongue.

"Sieur de Roberval," he said, meeting the nobleman's eyes with a frank,
straightforward gaze, "I am not dull-witted. I see that you have read
the meaning of my action, and even though it call down your anger on my
head, I will confess myself to you. Your niece was the cause of my
walking past and rudely staring at your windows. I love her, and unless
some more favoured suitor has already won her heart, I have vowed to
prove myself worthy of her hand, if God wills it."

"Silence!" almost shouted De Roberval. "If God wills it a thousand
times, it shall never be. I will oppose it. But why waste words?" he
added in a quieter tone. "My niece would spurn you as she would one of
Cartier's savages."

"At first, I have no doubt,"