"And excellent said," cried Castleton.

"None of ye know the West," went on the _coureur_. "Your Virginia, we
know well of it--a collection of beggars, prostitutes and thieves. Your
New England--a lot of cod-fishing, starving snivelers, who are most
concerned how to keep life in their bodies from year to year. New France
herself, sitting ever on the edge of an icy death, with naught but
bickerings at Quebec and naught but reluctant compliance from
Paris--what hath she to hope? I tell ye, gentlemen, 'tis beyond, in the
land of the Messasebe, where I shall for my part seek out my home; and
no man shall set iron on my soul again."

He spoke bitterly. The group about him, half amused, half cynical and
all ignorant, as were their kind at this time of the reign of William,
were none the less impressed and thoughtful. Yet once more the sneering
voice of Wilson broke in.

"A strange land, my friend," said he, "monstrous strange. Your unicorns
are great, and your women are little. Methinks to give thy tale
proportion thou shouldst have shown shoon somewhat larger."

"Peace! Beau," said Castleton, quickly. "As for the size of the human
foot--gad! I'll lay a roll of louis d'or that there's one dame here in
London town can wear this slipper of New France."

"Done!" cried Wilson. "Name the one."

"None other than the pretty Lawrence whom thou hast had under thine
ancient wing for the past two seasons."