And he flung the mess-room door open so forcibly that Ben Gillam waked with a jump.  At sight of Le Borgne the young New Englander sprang over the benches with his teeth agleam and murder on his face.  But the liquor had gone to his knees.  He keeled head over like a top-heavy brig, and when we dragged him up Le Borgne had bolted.

All that night Ben swore deliriously that he would do worse to Le Borgne’s master than he had done to the supercargo; but he never by any chance let slip who Le Borgne’s master might be, though M. Radisson, Chouart Groseillers, young Jean, and I kept watch by turns lest the drunken knave should run amuck of our Frenchmen.  I mind once, when M. Radisson and I were sitting quiet by the bunk where Ben was berthed, the young rake sat up with a fog-horn of a yell and swore he would slice that pirate of a Radisson and all his cursed Frenchies into meat for the dogs.

M. Radisson looked through the candle-light and smiled.  “If you want to know your character, Ramsay,” says he, “get your enemy talking in his cups!”

“Shiver my soul, if I’d ever come to his fort but to find out how strong the liar is!” cries Ben.

“Hm!  I thought so,” says M. de Radisson, pushing the young fellow back to his pillow and fastening the fur robes close lest frost steamed through the ill-chinked logs.

By Christmas Ben Gillam and Jack Battle of the New Englanders’ fort and the two spies of the Hudson’s Bay Company had all recovered enough from their freezing to go about.  What with keeping the English and New Englanders from knowing of each other’s presence, we had as twisted a piece of by-play as you could want.  Ben Gillam and Jack we dressed as bushrangers; the Hudson’s Bay spies as French marines.  Neither suspected the others were English, nor ever crossed words while with us.  And whatever enemies say of Pierre Radisson, I would have you remember that he treated his captives so well that chains would not have dragged them back to their own masters.

“How can I handle all the English of both forts unless I win some of them for friends?” he would ask, never laying unction to his soul for the kindness that he practised.

By Christmas, too, the snow had ceased falling and the frost turned the land to a silent, white, paleocrystic world.  Sap-frozen timbers cracked with the loud, sharp snapping of pistol-shots—­then the white silence!  The river ice splintered to the tightening grip of winter with the grinding of an earthquake, and again the white silence!  Or the heavy night air, lying thick with frost smoke like a pall over earth, would reverberate to the deep bayings of the wolf-pack, and over all would close the white silence!

As if to defy the powers of that deathly realm, M. de Radisson had the more logs heaped on our hearth and doubled the men’s rations.  On Christmas morning he had us all out to fire a salute, Ben Gillam and Jack and the two Fur Company spies disguised as usual, and the rest of us muffled to our eyes.  Jackets and tompions were torn from the cannon.  Unfrosted priming was distributed.  Flags were run up on boats and bastions.  Then the word was given to fire and cheer at the top of our voices.