he sent it up, up, up, till it settled on the shores of Hudson's Bay.
Again he ran the finger from the St. Lawrence up the coast and through
Hudson's Straits, but shook his head in negation. Then he stood, looked
at the map steadily, and presently, still absorbed, turned to the table.
He saw the violin, picked it up, and handed it to De Casson:

"Something with a smack of war," he said. "And a woman for me," added
Perrot.

The abbe shook his head musingly at Perrot, took the violin, and gathered
it to his chin. At first he played as if in wait of something that
eluded him. But all at once he floated into a powerful melody, as a
stream creeps softly through a weir, and after many wanderings broadens
suddenly into a great stream. He had found his theme. Its effect was
striking. Through Iberville's mind there ran a hundred incidents of his
life, one chasing upon the other without sequence--phantasmagoria out of
the scene--house of memory:

The light upon the arms of De Tracy's soldiers when they marched up
Mountain Street many years before--The frozen figure of a man standing
upright in the plains--A procession of canoes winding down past Two
Mountains, the wild chant of the Indians joining with the romantic songs
of the voyageurs--A girl flashing upon the drawn swords of two lads--King
Louis giving his hand to one of these lads to kiss--A lady of the Court
for whom he might easily have torn his soul to rags, but for a fair-faced
English girl, ever like a delicate medallion in his eye--A fight with the
English in the Spaniards' country--His father blessing him as he went
forth to France--A dark figure taking a hundred shapes, and yet always
meaning the same as when he--Iberville--said over the governor's table in
New York, "Foolish boy!"--A vast stretch of lonely forest, in the white