Late in the afternoon the watchers from the rock of Quebec saw the ships of the New England fleet slowly rounding the point of the Island of Orleans.
To the eyes of Sir William Phips and his men the great fortress, crowned with walls, towers, and guns, rising three hundred feet above the water, the white banner flaunting from the chateau and the citadel, the batteries, the sentinels upon the walls--were suggestive of stern work.
Presently there drew away from Phips's fleet a boat carrying a subaltern with a flag of truce, who was taken blindfold to the Chateau St.Louis.
Frontenac's final words to the youth were these: "Bid your master do his best, and I will do mine." Disguised as a river-man, Iberville himself, with others, rowed the subaltern back almost to the side of the admiral's ship, for by the freak of some peasants the boat which had brought him had been set adrift.

As they rowed from the ship back towards the shore, Iberville, looking up, saw, standing on the deck, Phips and George Gering.

He had come for this.

He stood up in his boat and took off his cap.

His long clustering curls fell loose on his shoulders, and he waved a hand with a nonchalant courtesy.