Godefroy was giving a hand to bind up my gashed palm when something grunted a “huff-huff” beside us.  Le Borgne was there with a queer look on his inscrutable face.

“Le Borgne, you rascal, you know who gave me this,” I began, taking careful scrutiny of the Indian.

One eye was glazed and sightless, the other yellow like a fox’s; but the fellow was straight, supple, and clean-timbered as a fresh-hewn mast.  With a “huh-huh,” he gabbled back some answer.

“What does he say, Godefroy?”

“He says he doesn’t understand the white-man’s tongue—­which is a lie,” added Godefroy of his own account.  “Le Borgne was interpreter for the Fur Company at the south of the bay the year that M. Radisson left the English.”

Were my assailants, then, Hudson’s Bay Company men come up from the south end of James Bay?  Certainly, the voice had spoken English.  I would have drawn Godefroy aside to inform him of my adventure, but Le Borgne stuck to us like a burr.  Jean was busy helping M. de Radisson at the trade, or what was called “trade,” when white men gave an awl for forty beaver-skins.

“Godefroy,” I said, “keep an eye on this Indian till I speak to M. de Radisson.”  And I turned to the group.  ’Twas as pretty a bit of colour as I have ever seen.  The sea, like silver, on one side; the autumn-tinted woods, brown and yellow and gold, on the other; M. de Radisson in his gay dress surrounded by a score of savages with their faces and naked chests painted a gaudy red, headgear of swans’ down, eagle quills depending from their backs, and buckskin trousers fringed with the scalp-locks of the slain.

Drawing M. de Radisson aside, I gave him hurried account of the night’s adventures.

“Ha!” says he.  “Not Hudson’s Bay Company men, or you would be in irons, lad!  Not French, for they spoke English.  Pardieu!  Poachers and thieves—­we shall see!  Where is that vagabond Cree?  These people are southern Indians and know nothing of him.—­Godefroy,” he called.

Godefroy came running up.  “Le Borgne’s gone,” said Godefroy breathlessly.

“Gone?” repeated Radisson.

“He left word for Master Stanhope from one who wishes him well—­”

“One who wishes him well,” repeated M. Radisson, looking askance at me.

“For Master Stanhope not to be bitten twice by the same dog!”

Our amazement you may guess:  M. de Radisson, suspicious of treachery and private trade and piracy on my part; I as surprised to learn that I had a well-wisher as I had been to discover an unknown foe; and Godefroy, all cock-a-whoop with his news, as is the way of the vulgar.

“Ramsay,” said M. Radisson, speaking very low and tense, “As you hope to live and without a lie, what—­does—­this—­mean?”

“Sir, as I hope to live—­I—­do—­not—­know!”

He continued to search me with doubting looks.  I raised my wounded hand.