“Storm and cold—­man and beast—­powers of darkness and devil—­knaves and fools and his own sins—­he must fight them all, lads,” says M. Radisson slowly.

“Who must fight them all?” asks Jean.

“The victor,” answers Radisson, and warm red flashed to the surface of the cold steel in his eyes.

“Jean,” he began, looking up quickly towards the gathering darkness of the woods.

“Sir?”

“’Tis cold enough for hunters to want a fire.”

“Is the fire not big enough?”

“Now, where are your wits, lad?  If hunters were hiding in that bush, one could see this fire a long way off.  The wind is loud.  One could go close without being heard.  Pardieu, I’ll wager a good scout could creep up to a log like this”—­touching the pine on which we sat—–­“and hear every word we are saying without a soul being the wiser!”

Jean turned with a start, half-suspecting a spy.  Radisson laughed.

“Must I spell it out?  Eh, lad, afraid to go?”

The taunt bit home.  Without a word Jean and I rose.

“Keep far enough apart so that one of you will escape back with the news,” called Radisson, as we plunged into the woods.

Of the one who might not escape Pierre Radisson gave small heed, and so did we.  Jean took the river side and I the inland thicket, feeling our way blindly through the blackness of forest and storm and night.  Then the rain broke—­broke in lashing whip-cords with the crackle of fire.  Jean whistled and I signalled back; but there was soon such a pounding of rains it drowned every sound.  For all the help one could give the other we might have been a thousand miles apart.  I looked back.  M. Radisson’s fire threw a dull glare into the cavernous upper darkness.  That was guide enough.  Jean could keep his course by the river.

It was plunging into a black nowhere.  The trees thinned.  I seemed to be running across the open, the rain driving me forward like a wet sail, a roar of wind in my ears and the words of M. Radisson ringing their battle-cry—­“Storm and cold—­man and beast—­powers of darkness and devil—­knaves and fools and his own sins—­he must fight them all!”—­“Who?”—­“The victor!”

Of a sudden the dripping thicket gave back a glint.  Had I run in a circle and come again on M. Radisson’s fire?  Behind, a dim glare still shone against the sky.

Another glint from the rain drip, and I dropped like a deer hit on the run.  Not a gunshot away was a hunter’s fire.  Against the fire were three figures.  One stood with his face towards me, an Indian dressed in buckskin, the man who had pursued the deer.  The second was hid by an intervening tree; and as I watched, the third faded into the phaseless dark.  Who were these night-watchers?  I liked not that business of spying—­though you may call it scouting, if you will, but I must either report nothing to M. Radisson, or find out more.