The fire was there.  But I was alone.

[1] Reference to M. Radisson’s journal corroborates Mr. Stanhope in this observance, which was never neglected by M. Radisson after season of peril.  It is to be noted that he made his prayers after not at the season of peril.

CHAPTER IX

VISITORS

The fire had every appearance of a night bivouac, but there was remnant of neither camp nor hunt.  Somewhere on my left lay the river.  By that the way led back to M. Radisson’s rendezvous.  It was risky enough—­that threading of the pathless woods through the pitchy dark; but he who pauses to measure the risk at each tread is ill fitted to pioneer wild lands.

Who the assassin was and why he had so suddenly desisted, I knew no more than you do!  That he had attacked was natural enough; for whoever took first possession of no-man’s-land in those days either murdered his rivals or sold them to slavery.  But why had he flung his sword down at the moment of victory?

The pelting of the rain softened to a leafy patter, the patter to a drip, and a watery moon came glimmering through the clouds.  With my enemy’s rapier in hand I began cutting a course through the thicket.  Radisson’s fire no longer shone.  Indeed, I became mighty uncertain which direction to take, for the rush of the river merged with the beating of the wind.  The ground sloped precipitously; and I was holding back by the underbrush lest the bank led to water when an indistinct sound, a smothery murmur like the gurgle of a subterranean pool, came from below.

The wind fell.  The swirl of the flowing river sounded far from the rear.  I had become confused and was travelling away from the true course.  But what was that sound?

I threw a stick forward.  It struck hard stone.  At the same instant was a sibilant, human—­distinctly human—­“Hss-h,” and the sound had ceased.

That was no laving of inland pond against pebbles.  Make of it what you will—­there were voices, smothered but talking.  “No-no-no” . . . then the warning . . .  “Hush!” . . . then the wind and the river and . . .  “No—­no!” with words like oaths. . . .  “No—­I say, no!  Having come so far, no!—­not if it were my own brother!” . . . then the low “Hush!” . . . and pleadings . . . then—­“Send Le Borgne!”

And an Indian had rushed past me in the dark with a pine fagot in his hand.

Rising, I stole after him.  ’Twas the fellow who had been at the fire with that unknown assailant.  He paused over the smouldering embers, searching the ground, found the hilt of the broken sword, lifted the severed blade, kicked leaves over all traces of conflict, and extinguishing the fire, carried off the broken weapon.  An Indian can pick his way over known ground without a torch.  What was this fellow doing with a torch?  Had he been sent for me?  I drew back in shadow to let him pass.  Then I ran with all speed to the river.