“Your Excellency,” says he, with the bow of a courtier, “this is Captain Gingras of our new ship.”

Before I had gathered my wits, Governor Brigdar was shaking hands.

“And this,” continued Radisson, motioning forward the common sailor too quick for surprise to betray us, “this, Your Excellency, is Colonel Bienville of our marines.”

Colonel Bienville, being but a lubberly fellow, nigh choked with amazement at the English governor’s warmth; but before we knew our leader’s drift, the marquis and La Chesnaye were each in turn presented as commanders of our different land forces.

“’Tis the misfortune of my staff not to speak English,” explains Pierre Radisson suavely with another bow, which effectually shut any of our mouths that might have betrayed him.

“Doubtless your officers know Canary better than English,” returns Governor Brigdar; and he would have us all in to drink healths.

“Keep your foot in the open door,” Pierre Radisson whispered as we passed into the house.

Then we drank the health of the King of England, firing our muskets into the roof; and drank to His Most Christian Majesty of France with another volley; and drank to the confusion of our common enemies, with a clanking of gun-butts that might have alarmed the dead.  Upon which Pierre Radisson protested that he would not keep Governor Brigdar from the hunt; and we took our departure.

“And now,” said he, hastening through the bush, “as no one took fright at all that firing, what’s to hinder examining the ship?”

“Pardieu, Ramsay,” he remarked, placing us in ambush again, “an we had a big enough fort, with food to keep them alive, we might have bagged them all.”

From which I hold that M. Radisson was not so black a man as he has been painted; for he could have captured the English as they lay weak of the scurvy and done to them, for the saving of fort rations, what rivals did to all foes—­shot them in a land which tells no secrets.

From our place on the shore we saw him scramble to the deck.  A man in red nightcap rushed forward with an oath.

“And what might you want, stealing up like a thief in the night?” roared the man.

“To offer my services, Captain Gillam,” retorted Radisson with a hand to his sword-hilt and both feet planted firm on the deck.

“Services?” bawled Gillam.

“Services for your crew, captain,” interrupted Radisson softly.

“Hm!” retorted Captain Gillam, pulling fiercely at his grizzled beard.  “Then you might send a dozen brace o’ partridges, some oil, and candles.”

With that they fell to talking in lower tones; and M. Radisson came away with quiet, unspoken mirth in his eyes, leaving Captain Gillam in better mood.

“Curse me if he doesn’t make those partridges an excuse to go back soon,” exclaimed La Chesnaye.  “The ship would be of some value; but why take the men prisoners?  Much better shoot them down as they would us, an they had the chance!”