The wind was shifting in a way that portended a nor’easter, and the weather would presently be too inclement for us to remain outside.  That hastened M. Radisson’s departure, though sun-dogs and the long, shrill whistling of contrary winds foretold what was brewing.

“Sink me, after such kindness, I’ll see you part way home!  By the Lord Harry, I will!” swore Ben.

M. Radisson screwed his eyes nigh shut and protested he could not permit young Captain Gillam to take such trouble.

“The young villain,” mutters La Chesnaye, “he wants to spy which way we go.”

“Come!  Come!” cries Ben.  “If you say another word I go all the way with you!”

“To spy on our fort,” whispers La Chesnaye.

M. Radisson responds that nothing would give greater pleasure.

“I’ve half a mind to do it,” hesitates Ben, looking doubtfully at us.

“To be sure,” urges M. Radisson, “come along and have a Christmas with our merry blades!”

“Why, then, by the Lord, I will!” decides Gillam.  “That is,” he added, “if you’ll send the marquis and his man, there, back to my fort as hostages.”

M. Radisson twirled his mustaches thoughtfully, gave the marquis the same instructions in French as he had given us when we were left in the New Englander’s fort, and turning with a calm face to Ben, bade him get into our canoe.

But when we launched out M. Radisson headed the craft up-stream in the wrong direction, whither we paddled till nightfall.  It was cold enough in all conscience to afford Ben Gillam excuse for tipping a flask from his jacket-pouch to his teeth every minute or two; but when we were rested and ready to launch again, the young captain’s brain was so befuddled that he scarce knew whether he were in Boston or on Hudson Bay.

This time we headed straight down-stream, Ben nodding and dozing from his place in the middle, M. Radisson, La Chesnaye, and I poling hard to keep the drift-ice off.  We avoided the New Englander’s fort by going on the other side of the island, and when we shot past Governor Brigdar’s stockades with the lights of the Prince Rupert blinking through the dark, Ben was fast asleep.

And all the while the winds were piping overhead with a roar as from the wings of the great storm bird which broods over all that northland.  Then the blore of the trumpeting wind was answered by a counter fugue from the sea, with a roll and pound of breakers across the sand of the traverse.  Carried by the swift current, we had shot into the bay.  It was morning, but the black of night had given place to the white darkness of northern storm.  Ben Gillam jerked up sober and grasped an idle pole to lend a hand.  Through the whirl of spray M. Radisson’s figure loomed black at the bow, and above the boom of tumbling waves came the grinding as of an earthquake.

“We are lost!  We are lost!” shrieked Gillam in panic, cowering back to the stern.  “The storm’s drifted down polar ice from the north and we’re caught!  We’re caught!” he cried.