you heading for the straits at once?"
"Why, yes!" he said gravely, but with a twinkle in his eyes. "We must be there when the ice clears from the straits. We must slip through to the bay, ahead of the English."
"And I heard you say you'd give much," she hurried on, "for charts. Charts of the bay and the river where Fort Nelson lies. If you had a chart that showed the depths along the coast, would it help you?"
In the sudden silence, the dark lean face of Iberville narrowed abruptly, and his eyes blazed forth.
"What's this? You know where such charts could be had?"
"Yes. I have them," said Bess Adams. "My father was a pilot for the English company. I—I'd like to sell the charts to you."
Her voice faltered and died, as that of Serigny crackled up.
"Careful, Pierre! This may be some English trick. Beware!"
"Honest eyes give the lie to tricks," said Iberville. "Come, lad! I thought you were one of the Irish slaves? How, then, was your father an English pilot?"
"He died," she said simply. "My mother was Irish, and she died. The English would have harmed me, and I fled here for safety."
Now, all this was true enough in its way. A young girl alone in the settlements was as safe as a fat rabbit in the midst of a wolf-pack; in this wild land women were rarer than diamonds or gold. To the three le Moynes who looked at her, Bess Adams was no more than a boy, shock-headed, roughly clad, excited.
"Come, lad, I know you," said Iberville kindly. "But I don't understand your words, or your talk of selling these charts."
The boy flushed scarlet.
"Not for money, monsieur; not that at all! I'd sell you the charts for a place aboard your ship, your own ship. I can serve. I'm strong and willing."
"I'll be damned!" said Iberville, staring. "You want to go with the fleet? Why?"
Shy, confused, the boy hesitated.
"Why stay here, monsieur? It's like you said a little while ago; something new, over the horizon! Here life is deadly. With—with you, it's worth while."
Iberville, radiant, put up a hand and gripped the boy's shoulder.
"Ha, brave eyes! You're a lad after my own heart! The chaplain aboard the Pelican, my own ship, is an Irishman, one Fitzmaurice of Kerry. He'll find you a place—but first, what about these charts? Where are they?"
"Upstairs, monsieur, with my things in the loft. Then, you'll take me?"
"Yes, yes! Get your charts, boy; if you speak the truth, you have my word on it. Get them, get them! Name of the devil, what luck this may prove to be—get them!"
So Bess Adams got the little leather-encased packet from the cold sleeping loft, and brought it down. Iberville unfolded the papers, and in a growing blaze of excitement the three men studied them; until, abruptly, Iberville reached out and caught the boy in a wild, joyous embrace.
"A marvel, a marvel!" he cried, in an ecstasy of delight. "Brave eyes, you've brought us luck and all else; here's the one thing we needed! Get what things you have, and go aboard ship with me this night."
Bess Adams, red and frightened lest
