“Radisson!  In the name o’ the fiends—­where from?”

“Oh, we’ve just run across the way from Hudson Bay!” says Radisson.

And the good man presently appears at the door with a candle in one hand and a bludgeon in the other.

“In the name o’ the fiends, when did you arrive, man?” exclaims Mr. Young, hailing us inside.

“Two minutes ago by the clock,” laughs Radisson, looking at the timepiece in the hall.  “Two minutes and a half ago,” says he, following our host to the library.

“How many beaver-skins?” asks the Englishman, setting down his candle.

The Frenchman smiles.

“Twenty thousand beaver—­skins and as many more of other sorts!”

The Englishman sits down to pencil out how much that will total at ten shillings each; and Pierre Radisson winks at us.

“The winnings again,” says he.

“Twenty thousand pounds!” cries our host, springing up.

“Aye,” says Pierre Radisson, “twenty thousand pounds’ worth o’ fur without a pound of shot or the trade of a nail-head for them.  The French had these furs in store ready for us!”

Mr. Young lifts his candle so that the light falls on Radisson’s bronzed face.  He stands staring as if to make sure we are no wraiths.

“Twenty thousand pounds,” says he, slowly extending his right hand to Pierre Radisson.  “Radisson, man, welcome!”

The Frenchman bows with an ironical laugh.

“Twenty thousand pounds’ worth o’ welcome, sir!”

But the director of the Fur Company rambles on unheeding.

“These be great news for the king and His Royal Highness,” says he.

“Aye, and as I have some rare furs for them both, why not let us bear the news to them ourselves?” asks Radisson.

“That you shall,” cries Mr. Young; and he led us up-stairs, where we might refresh ourselves for the honour of presentation to His Majesty next day.

[1] The Duke of York became Governor of the Hudson’s Bay Company after Prince Rupert’s death, and the Company’s charter was a royal favour direct from the king.

CHAPTER XXVIII

REBECCA AND I FALL OUT

M. Radisson had carried his rare furs to the king, and I was at Sir John Kirke’s door to report the return of her husband to Madame Radisson.  The same grand personage with sleek jowls and padded calves opened the door in the gingerly fashion of his office.  This time he ushered me quick enough into the dark reception-room.

As I entered, two figures jumped from the shadow of a tapestried alcove with gasps of fright.

“Ramsay!”

It was Rebecca, the prim monkey, blushing a deal more than her innocence warranted, with a solemn-countenanced gentleman of the cloth scowling from behind.

“When—­when—­did you come?” she asked, all in a pretty flutter that set her dimples atrembling; and she forgot to give me welcome.