Hortense raised her hand and pointed along the shore.  Our two guards were lumbering up and would presently betray our presence.  Stealing forward we motioned their silence.  I sent both to listen behind the rock, while Hortense and I struck into cover of the thicket to regain the fort.

“Do not fear,” said I.  “M.  Radisson has kept the prisoners in hand.  He will snuff this pretty conspiracy out before Brigdar and Ben get their heads apart.”

She gave that flitting look which laughs at fear and hastened on.  We could not go back as we had come without exposing ourselves to the two conspirators, and our course lay nearer the Indian revel.  About a mile from the fort Hortense stopped short.  Through the underbrush crawled two braves with their eyes leering at us.

“Hortense,” I urged, “run for the rear gate!  I’ll deal with these two alone.  There may be more!  Run, my dear!”

“Give me your musket,” she said, never taking her eyes from the savages.

Wondering not a little at the request, I handed her the weapon.

“Now run,” I begged, for a sand crane flapped up where the savages had prowled a pace nearer.

Quick as it rose Hortense aimed.  There was a puff of smoke.  The bird fell shot at the savages’ feet, and the miscreants scudded off in terror.

“That was better,” said Hortense, “you would have killed a man.”

In vain I urged her to hasten back.  She walked.

“You know it may be the last time,” she laughed, mocking my grave air of the beach.

“Hortense—­Hortense—­how am I to keep a promise?”

But she did not answer a word till we reached the sally-port.  There she turned with a brave enough look till her eyes met mine, when all was the confusion that men give their lives to win.

“Yes—­yes—­keep your promise.  If you had not come, I had died; if I had not come, you had died.  Let us keep faith with truth, for that’s keeping faith with God—­and—­and—­God bless you,” she whispered brokenly, and she darted through the gate.

* * * * * *

And the next morning we embarked, young Jean Groseillers remaining with ten Frenchmen to hold the fort; Brigdar and Ben aboard our ship instead of going to the English at the foot of the bay; half the prisoners under hatches in M. Groseillers’s ship; the other half sent south on the raft—­a plan which effectually stopped that conspiracy of Ben’s.  Not one glimpse of our fair passenger had we on all that voyage south, for what with Ben’s oaths and Governor Brigdar’s drinking, the cabin was no place for Hortense.

At Isle Percee, entering the St. Lawrence, lay a messenger from La Chesnaye’s father with a missive that bore ill news.

M. de la Barre, the new governor, had ordered our furs confiscated because we had gone north without a license, and La Chesnaye had thriftily rigged up this ship to send half our cargo across to France before the Farmers of the Revenue could get their hands upon it.  It was this gave rise to the slander that M. de Radisson ran off with half La Chesnaye’s furs—­which the records de la marine will disprove, if you search them.