“I demand to see your license,” boldly challenged Radisson.

At that the fellows ashore put their heads together.

“In the name of the king, I demand to see your license instantly,” repeated Sieur de Radisson, with louder authority.

“We have no license,” explained one of the men, who was dressed with slashed boots, red doublet, and cocked hat.

M. Radisson smiled and poled a length closer.

“A ship without a license!  A prize-for the taking!  If the rascals complain—­the galleys for life!” and he laughed softly.

“This coast is possessed by the King of France,” he shouted.  “We have a strong garrison!  We mistook your firing for more French ships!” Shaping his hands trumpet fashion to his mouth, he called this out again, adding that our Indian was of a nation in league with the French.

The pirates were dumb as if he had tossed a hand grenade among them.

“The ship is ours now, lads,” said Radisson softly, poling nearer.  “See, lads, the bottom has tumbled from their courage!  We’ll not waste a pound o’ powder in capturing that prize!” He turned suddenly to me—­“As I live by bread, ’tis that bragging young dandy-prat—­hop-o’-my-thumb—­Ben Gillam of Boston Town!”

“Ben Gillam!”

I was thinking of my assailant in the woods.  “Ben was tall.  The pirate, who came carving at me, was small.”

But Ben Gillam it was, turned pirate or privateer—­as you choose to call it—­grown to a well-timbered rapscallion with head high in air, jack-boots half-way to his waist, a clanking sword at heel, and a nose too red from rum.

As we landed, he sent his men scattering to the fort, and stood twirling his mustaches till the recognition struck him.

“By Jericho—­Radisson!” he gasped.

Then he tossed his chin defiantly in air like an unbroken colt disposed to try odds with a master.

“Don’t be afraid to land,” he called down out of sheer impudence.

“Don’t be afraid to have us land,” Radisson shouted up to him.  “We’ll not harm you!”

Ben swore a big oath, fleered a laugh, and kicked the sand with his heels.  Raising a hand, he signalled the watchers on the ship.

“Sorry to welcome you in this warlike fashion,” said he.

“Glad to welcome you to the domain of His Most Christian Majesty, the King of France,” retorted Radisson, leaping ashore.

Ben blinked to catch the drift of that.

“Devil take their majesties!” he ejaculated.  “He’s king who conquers!”

“No need to talk of conquering when one is master already,” corrected M. de Radisson.

“Shiver my soul,” blurts out Ben, “I haven’t a tongue like an eel, but that’s what I mean; and I’m king here, and welcome to you, Radisson!”

“And that’s what I mean,” laughed M. Radisson, with a bow, quietly motioning us to follow ashore.  “No need to conquer where one is master, and welcome to you, Captain Gillam!”