My father was his envoy: to debate with you our trade in the far West and our dealings with the Iroquois." "Exactly," said old William Drayton, tapping the table with his forefinger; "and a very sound move, upon my soul." "Ay, ay," said the governor, "I know of your father well enough.

A good fighter and an honest gentleman, as they say.

But proceed, Monsieur le Moyne of Iberville." "I am called Iberville," said the young man simply.

Then: "My father and myself started from Quebec with good Nick Perrot, the coureur du bois--" "I know him too," the governor interjected--"a scoundrel worth his weight in gold to your Count Frontenac." "For whose head Count Frontenac has offered gold in his time," answered Iberville, with a smile.
"A very pretty wit," said old William Drayton, nodding softly towards the girl, who was casting bright, quizzical glances at the youth over the back of the chair.
Iberville went on: "Six days ago we were set upon by a score of your Indians, and might easily have left our scalps with them; but, as it chanced, my father was wounded, I came off scot-free, and we had the joy of ridding your excellency of half a dozen rogues." The governor lifted his eyebrows and said nothing.

The face of the girl over against the back of the chair had become grave.
"It was in question whether Perrot or I should bear Count Frontenac's message.