“Ha!” called one, reining his horse to its haunches, “did that snivelling knave pass this way?”

“Do you mean this little gentleman?”

The officer galloped off.  “Keep an eye open, Radisson,” he shouted over his shoulder.

“’Twere better shut,” says M. Radisson softly; and at his name my blood pricked to a jump.

Here was he of whom Ben Gillam told, the half-wild Frenchman, who had married the royalist kinswoman of Eli Kirke; the hero of Spanish fights and Turkish wars; the bold explorer of the north sea, who brought back such wealth from an unknown land, governors and merchant princes were spying his heels like pirates a treasure ship.

“’Tis more sport hunting than being hunted,” he remarked, with an air of quiet reminiscence.

His suit was fine-tanned, cream buckskin, garnished with gold braid like any courtier’s, with a deep collar of otter.  Unmindful of manners, I would have turned again to stare, but he bade me guide the horse back to my home.

“Lest the hunters ask questions,” he explained.  “And what,” he demanded, “what doth a little cavalier in a Puritan hotbed?”

“I am even where God hath been pleased to set me, sir.”

“’Twas a ticklish place he set thee when I came up.”

“By your leave, sir, ’tis a higher place than I ever thought to know.”

M. Radisson laughed a low, mellow laugh, and, vowing I should be a court gallant, put me down before Eli Kirke’s turnstile.

My uncle came stalking forth, his lips pale with rage.  He had blazed out ere I could explain one word.

“Have I put bread in thy mouth, Ramsay Stanhope, that thou shouldst turn traitor?  Viper and imp of Satan!” he shouted, shaking his clinched fist in my face.  “Was it not enough that thou wert utterly bound in iniquity without persecuting the Lord’s anointed?”

I took a breath.

“Where is Balaam?” he demanded, seizing me roughly.

“Sir,” said I, “for leaving the room without leave, I pray you to flog me as I deserve.  As for the horse, he is safe and I hope far away under the gentleman I helped down from the attic.”

His face fell a-blank.  M. Radisson dismounted laughing.

“Nay, nay, Eli Kirke, I protest ’twas to the lad’s credit.  ’Twas this way, kinsman,” and he told all, with many a strange-sounding, foreign expression that must have put the Puritan’s nose out of joint, for Eli Kirke began blowing like a trumpet.

Then out comes Aunt Ruth to insist that M. Radisson share a haunch of venison at our noonday meal.

And how I wish I could tell you of that dinner, and of all that M. Radisson talked; of captivity among Iroquois and imprisonment in Spain and wars in Turkey; of his voyage over land and lake to a far north sea, and of the conspiracy among merchant princes of Quebec to ruin him.  By-and-bye Rebecca Stocking’s father came in, and the three sat talking plans for the northern trade till M. Radisson let drop that the English commissioners were keen to join the enterprise.  Then the two Puritans would have naught to do with it.