ay at
Court. No, no. I hate Iberville, but he is a great man."

In the veins of the renegade is still latent the pride of race. He is a
villain but he knows the height from which he fell. "He will find you,
monsieur," he repeats. "When Le Moyne is the hunter he never will kennel
till the end. Besides, there is the lady!"

"Silence!"

Radisson knows that he has said too much. His manner changes. "You will
let me go with you?" The Englishman remembers that this scoundrel was
with Bucklaw, although he does not know that Radisson was one of the
abductors.

"Never!" he says, and turns upon his heel.

A moment after and the two have disappeared from the lonely pageant of
ice and sun. Man has disappeared, but his works--houses and ships and
walls and snow-topped cannon--lie there in the hard grasp of the North,
while the White Weaver, at the summit of the world, is shuttling these
lives into the woof of battle, murder, and sudden death.

On the shore of the La Planta River a man lies looking into the sunset.
So sweet, so beautiful is the landscape, the deep foliage, the scent of
flowers, the flutter of bright-winged birds, the fern-grown walls of a
ruined town, the wallowing eloquence of the river, the sonorous din
of the locust, that none could think this a couch of death. A Spanish
priest is making ready for that last long voyage, when the soul of
man sloughs the dross of earth. Beside him kneels another priest--a
Frenchman of the same order.

The dying man feebly takes from his breast a packet and hands it to his
friend.

"It is as I have said," he whispers. "Others may guess, but I know. I
know--and another. The rest are all dead. There were six of us, and all
were killed save myself. We were poisoned by a Spaniard. He thought he
had killed all, but I lived. He also was killed. His murderer's name was
Bucklaw--an English pirate. He has the secret. Once he came with a ship
to find, but there was trouble and he did not go on. An Englishman also
came with the king's ship, but he did not find. But I know that the
man Bucklaw will come again. It should not be. Listen: A year ago, and
something more, I was travelling to the coast. From there I was to sail
for Spain. I had lost the chart of the river then. I was taken ill and
I should have died, but a young French officer stayed his men beside me
and cared for me, and had me carried to the coast, where I recovered. I
did not go to Spain, and I found the chart of the riv