On all that voyage home he never once crossed words with the English officers, but took his share of hardship with the French prisoners.

“I mayn’t go back to France.  They think they have me cornered and in their power,” he would say, gnawing at his finger-ends and gazing into space.

Once, after long reverie, he sprang up from a gun-waist where he had been sitting and uttered a scornful laugh.

“Cornered?  Hah!  We shall see!  I snap my fingers in their faces.”

Thereafter his mood brightened perceptibly, and he was the first to put foot ashore when we came to anchor in British port.  There were yet four hours before the post-chaise left for London, and the English crew made the most of the time by flocking to the ale-houses.  M. Radisson drew Jean and me apart.

“We’ll beat our detractors yet,” he said.  “If news of this capture be carried to the king and the Duke of York[1] before the shareholders spread false reports, we are safe.  If His Royal Highness favour us, the Company must fall in line or lose their charter!”

And he bade us hire three of the fleetest saddle-horses to be found.  While the English crew were yet brawling in the taverns, we were to horse and away.  Our horse’s feet rang on the cobblestones with the echo of steel and the sparks flashed from M. Radisson’s eyes.  A wharfmaster rushed into mid-road to stop us, but M. Radisson rode him down.  A uniformed constable called out to know what we were about.

“Our business!” shouts M. Radisson, and we are off.

Country franklins got their wains out of our way with mighty confusion, and coaches drew aside for us to pass, and roadside brats scampered off with a scream of freebooters; but M. Radisson only laughed.

“This is living,” said he.  “Give your nag rein, Jean!  Whip and spur!  Ramsay!  Whip and spur!  Nothing’s won but at cost of a sting!  Throw off those jack-boots, Jean!  They’re a handicap!  Loose your holsters, lad!  An any highwaymen come at us to-day I’ll send him a short way to a place where he’ll stay!  Whip up!  Whip up!”

“What have you under your arm?” cries Jean breathlessly.

“Rare furs for the king,” calls Radisson.

Then the wind is in our hair, and thatched cots race off in a blur on either side; plodding workmen stand to stare and are gone; open fields give place to forest, forest to village, village to bare heath; and still we race on.

* * * * * *

Midnight found us pounding through the dark of London streets for Cheapside, where lived Mr. Young, a director of the Hudson’s Bay Company, who was favourable to Pierre Radisson.

“Halloo!  Halloo!” shouts Radisson, beating his pistol-butt on the door.

A candle and a nightcap emerge from the upper window.

“Who’s there?” demands a voice.

“It’s Radisson, Mr. Young!”