“I’m not so sure of that,” said I.  “The Gillams have been working against you here, and so has Brigdar.”

“Hah—­let them work!”

“Did you see her?” I asked.

“Her?” questions Radisson absently.  “Pardieu, there are so many hers about the court now with no she-saint among them!  Which do you mean?”

The naming of Hortense after such speech was impossible.  Without more mention of the court, we entered the Company’s office, where sat the councillors in session around a long table.  No one rose to welcome him who had brought such wealth on the Happy Return; and the reason was not far to seek.  The post-chaise had arrived with Pierre Radisson’s detractors, and allied with them were the Gillams and Governor Brigdar.

Pierre Radisson advanced undaunted and sat down.  Black looks greeted his coming, and the deputy-governor, who was taking the Duke of York’s place, rose to suggest that “Mr. Brigdar, wrongfully dispossessed of the fort on the bay by one Frenchman known as Radisson, be restored as governor of those parts.”

A grim smile went from face to face at Pierre Radisson’s expense.

“Better withdraw, man, better withdraw,” whispers Sir John Kirke, his father-in-law.

But Radisson only laughs.

Then one rises to ask by what authority the Frenchman, Radisson, had gone to report matters to the king instead of leaving that to the shareholders.

M. de Radisson utters another loud laugh.

Comes a knocking, and there appears at the door Colonel Blood, father of the young lieutenant, with a message from the king.

“Gentlemen,” announces the freebooter, “His Majesty hath bespoke dinner for the Fur Company at the Lion.  His Royal Highness, the Duke of York, hath ordered Madeira for the councillors’ refreshment, and now awaits your coming!”

For the third time M. Radisson laughs aloud with a triumph of insolence.

“Come, gentlemen,” says he, “I’ve countered.  Let us be going.  His Royal Highness awaits us across the way.”

Blood stood twirling his mustaches and tapping his sword-handle impatiently.  He was as swarth and straight and dauntless as Pierre Radisson, with a sinister daring in his eyes that might have put the seal to any act.

“Egad’s life!” he exclaimed, “do fur-traders keep royalty awaiting?”

And our irate gentleman must needs haste across to the Lion, where awaited the Company Governor, the Duke of York, with all the merry young blades of the court.  King Charles’s reign was a time of license, you have been told.  What that meant you would have known if you had seen the Fur Company at dinner.  Blood, Senior, I mind, had a drinking-match against Sir George Jeffreys, the judge; and I risk not my word on how much those two rascals put away.  The judge it was who went under mahogany first, though Colonel Blood scarce had wit enough left to count