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Updated: June 13, 2025
The door at Marquette's was thrown open and half a dozen men rushed out into the road. The girl felt Drennen's arm relax, the right arm about her shoulders. With a quick movement she slipped free of it. "Who shot?" called one of the men. "What's wrong?" Ygerne, two paces from Drennen's side, answered very quietly, her coolness amazing him. "I fired. It was a wager with Mr. Drennen.
He had had Marquette's estimate and Joe's . . . now he sought to form his own. . . . There was a hard smile upon Sothern's face as Drennen passed on, a smile not without a strange sort of satisfaction, flashing a quick light into the eyes. "By God, I like him!" he burst out softly. "So you're David Drennen, are you? Well, my boy, the hounds of hell are after you . . . that's in your face.
Joliet carried orders from Frontenac the governor and Talon the intendant, that Marquette should join him or he Marquette upon this voyage of discovery, so consonant with Marquette's desire for divine ordering.
Turn your thoughts there, sire, and in a few years you would be able to stand upon your citadel at Quebec, and to say there is one great empire here from the snows of the North to the warm Southern Gulf, and from the waves of the ocean to the great plains beyond Marquette's river, and the name of this empire is France, and her king is Louis, and her flag is the fleurs-de-lis."
An odd smile touched Drennen's lips fleetingly; he put out a freed arm so that it fell about Sothern's shoulders, his eyes closed and consciousness went out of him with a sigh. "Bring him over to Marquette's." It was Charlie Madden's voice.
Lemarc and Sefton, speaking together, had dropped far behind; Hasbrook was close to Madden's elbow. So they passed down the street. Ygerne Bellaire, standing now in front of Marquette's, watched them wonderingly. Sothern came first to the dugout. The door being open, he passed in without stopping. He laid the inert form down gently and came back to the door.
So the learned son of Laon and the practical son of the wagon-maker of Quebec set out westward upon their journey under the protection of Marquette's particular divinity, but provided by Joliet with supplies of smoked meat and Indian corn, and furnished with a map of their proposed route made up from rather hazy Indian data.
Ignace that we have seen La Salle, in scarlet, kneeling before the altar, where Marquette's bones were doubtless by that time gathered by his devoted savage followers, and it was thence that they passed on to an island in Green Bay, the goal of their journey. From that far port the first cargo carried of sails was sent out, bound for the shore on which the Griffin's timbers had been hewn.
Here, also, the shade was down. He tapped softly. When there was no answer he tapped again. Then he went to Marquette's door and knocked sharply. "Nom de nom." It was Père Marquette's voice, sleepy and irritable. The old man was fumbling with the bar or the lock or whatever it was that fastened his door. He seemed an eternity in getting the thing done.
And while Rand breathed heavily, Ramon Garcia, whose soul was as deeply steeped in the dramatic as Père Marquette's in colour, sang maddening little snatches of love songs and stole swift glances now and then at Ernestine Dumont. From the beginning it was clear that Garcia was playing with the other. But the end, coming swiftly, was not what men had looked for.
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