“If there are no Indians, how much farther do we go, sir?” asked Godefroy sulkily on the eighth day.

“Till we find them,” answered M. Radisson.

And we found them that night.

A deer broke from the woods edging the sand where we camped and had almost bounded across our fire when an Indian darted out a hundred yards behind.  Mistaking us for his own people, he whistled the hunter’s signal to head the game back.  Then he saw that we were strangers.  Pulling up of a sudden, he threw back his arms, uttered a cry of surprise, and ran to the hiding of the bush.

M. Radisson was the first to pursue; but where the sand joined the thicket he paused and began tracing the point of his rapier round the outlines of a mark.

“What do you make of it, Godefroy?” he demanded of the trader.

The trader looked quizzically at Sieur de Radisson.

“The toes of that man’s moccasin turn out,” says Godefroy significantly.

“Then that man is no Indian,” retorted M. Radisson, “and hang me, if the size is not that of a woman or a boy!”

And he led back to the beach.

“Yon ship was a pirate,” began Godefroy, “and if buccaneers be about——­”

“Hold your clack, fool,” interrupted M. Radisson, as if the fellow’s prattle had cut into his mental plannings; and he bade us heap such a fire as could be seen by Indians for a hundred miles.  “If once I can find the Indians,” meditated he moodily, “I’ll drive out a whole regiment of scoundrels with one snap o’ my thumb!”

Black clouds rolled in from the distant bay, boding a stormy night; and Godefroy began to complain that black deeds were done in the dark, and we were forty leagues away from the protection of our ships.

“A pretty target that fire will make of us in the dark,” whined the fellow.

M. Radisson’s eyes glistened sparks.

“I’d as lief be a pirate myself, as be shot down by pirates,” grumbled the trader, giving a hand to hoist the shed of sheet canvas that was to shield us from the rains now aslant against the seaward horizon.

At the words M. Radisson turned sharply; but the heedless fellow gabbled on.

“Where is a man to take cover, an the buccaneers began shooting from the bush behind?” demanded Godefroy belligerently.

M. Radisson reached one arm across the fire.  “I’ll show you,” said he.  Taking Godefroy by the ear, with a prick of the sword he led the lazy knave quick march to the beach, where lay our canoe bottom up.

“Crawl under!” M. Radisson lifted the prow.

From very shame—­I think it was—­Godefroy balked; but M. Radisson brought a cutting rap across the rascal’s heels that made him hop.  The canoe clapped down, and Godefroy was safe.  “Pardieu,” mutters Radisson, “such cowards would turn the marrow o’ men’s bones to butter!”

Sitting on a log, with his feet to the fire, he motioned Jean and me to come into the shelter of the slant canvas; for the clouds were rolling overhead black as ink and the wind roared up the river-bed with a wall of pelting rain.  M. Radisson gazed absently into the flame.  The steel lights were at play in his eyes, and his lips parted.