“Why—­why did you promise that?” she asked.  “It has always been his mad dream.  And when I told him I did not want to be restored, that I wanted to be like Rebecca and Jack and you and the rest, he called me a little fool and bade me understand that he had not poisoned me as he was paid to do because it was to his advantage to keep me alive.  Courtiers would not assassinate a stray waif, he said; there was wealth for the court’s ward somewhere; and when I was restored, I was to remember who had slaved for me.  Indeed, indeed, I think that he would have married me, but that he feared it would bar him from any property as a king’s ward——­”

“Is that all you know?”

“That is all.  Why—­why—­did you promise?”

“What else was there to do, Hortense?  You can’t stay in this wilderness.”

“Oh, yes,” says Hortense wearily, and she let the violets fall.  “What—­what else was there to do?”

She led the way back to the cave.

“You have not asked me how we came here,” she began with visible effort.

“Tell me no more than you wish me to know!”

“Perhaps you remember a New Amsterdam gentleman and a page boy leaving Boston on the Prince Rupert?”

“Perhaps,” said I.

“Captain Gillam of the Prince Rupert signalled to his son outside the harbour.  Monsieur had been bargaining with Ben all winter.  Ben took us to the north with Le Borgne for interpreter——­”

“Does Ben know you are here?”

“Not as Hortense!  I was dressed as a page.  Then Le Borgne told us of this cave and monsieur plotted to lead the Indians against Ben, capture the fort and ship, and sail away with all the furs for himself.  Oh, how I have hated him!” she exclaimed with a sudden impetuous stamp.

Leaving her with the slaves, I took Le Borgne with me to the Habitation.  Here, I told all to M. Radisson.  And his quick mind seized this, too, for advantage.

“Precious pearls,” he exclaims, “but ’tis a gift of the gods!”

“Sir?”

“Pardieu, Chouart; listen to this,” and he tells his kinsman, Groseillers.

“Why not?” asks Groseillers.  “You mean to send her to Mary Kirke?”

Mary Kirke was Pierre Radisson’s wife, who would not leave the English to go to him when he had deserted England for France.

“Sir John Kirke is director of the English Company now.  He hath been knighted by King Charles.  Mary and Sir John will present this little maid at the English court.  An she be not a nine days’ wonder there, my name is not Pierre Radisson.  If she’s a court ward, some of the crew must take care of her.”

Groseillers smiled.  “An the French reward us not well for this winter’s work, that little maid may open a door back to England; eh, kinsman?”

’Twas the same gamestering spirit carrying them through all hazard that now led them to prepare for fresh partnership, lest France played false.  And as history tells, France played very false indeed.