"Shall it be here or yonder in the pines, where we were in train last night ?" "Yonder." "So." Then Iberville hummed ironically a song: "Oh, bury me where I have fought and fallen, Your scarf across my shoulder, lady mine." They passed on.

"The game is in our hands," said Bucklaw.

"I understand this thing.

That's a pair of gallant young sprigs, but the choice is your Frenchman, Radisson." "I'll pink his breast-bone full of holes if the other doesn't--curse him." A sweet laugh trickled from Bucklaw's lips like oil.

"That's neither here nor there.