The screaming gulls knew not what to make of these strange visitors; for we were at Port Nelson—­Fort Bourbon, as the French called it.

And you must not forget that we were French on that trip!

[1] These expressions are M. de Radisson’s and not words coined by Mr. Stanhope, as may be seen by reference to the French explorer’s account of his own travels, written partly in English, where he repeatedly refers to a “pretty pickle.”  As for the ships, they seem to have been something between a modern whaler and old-time brigantine.—­Author.

CHAPTER VIII

M. DE RADISSON COMES TO HIS OWN

The sea was touched to silver by the rising sun—­not the warm, red sun of southern climes, nor yet the gold light of the temperate zones, but the cold, clear steel of that great cold land where all the warring elements challenge man to combat.  Browned by the early frosts, with a glint of hoar rime on the cobwebs among the grasses, north, south, and west, as far as eye could see, were boundless reaches of hill and valley.  And over all lay the rich-toned shadows of early dawn.

The broad river raced not to meet the sea more swiftly than our pulses leaped at sight of that unclaimed world.  ’Twas a kingdom waiting for its king.  And its king had come!  Flush with triumph, sniffing the nutty, autumn air like a war-horse keen for battle, stood M. Radisson all impatience for the conquest of new realms.  His jewelled sword-hilt glistened in the sun.  The fire that always slumbered in the deep-set eyes flashed to life; and, fetching a deep breath, he said a queer thing to Jean and me.

“’Tis good air, lads,” says he; “’tis free!”

And I, who minded that bloody war in which my father lost his all, knew what the words meant, and drank deep.

But for the screaming of the birds there was silence of death.  And, indeed, it was death we had come to disenthrone.  M. Radisson issued orders quick on top of one another, and the sailors swarmed from the hold like bees from a hive.  The drum beat a roundelay that set our blood hopping.  There were trumpet-calls back and forth from our ship to the Ste. Anne.  Then, to a whacking of cables through blocks, the gig-boats touched water, and all hands were racing for the shore.  Godefroy waved a monster flag—­lilies of France, gold-wrought on cloth of silk—­and Allemand kept beating—­and beating—­and beating the drum, rumbling out a “Vive le Roi!” to every stroke.  Before the keel gravelled on the beach, M. Radisson’s foot was on the gunwale, and he leaped ashore.  Godefroy followed, flourishing the French flag and yelling at the top of his voice for the King of France.  Behind, wading and floundering through the water, came the rest.  Godefroy planted the flag-staff.  The two crews sent up a shout that startled those strange, primeval silences.  Then, M. Radisson stepped forward, hat in hand, whipped out his sword, and held it aloft.