Ben Gillam was sober enough that morning but in the mood of a ruffian stale from overnight brawls.  Hardly had the rocking echoes of cannonading died away when the rascal strode boldly forward in front of us all, up with his musket, took quick aim at the main flagstaff and fired.  The pole splintered off at the top and the French flag fluttered to the ground.

“There’s for you—­you Frenchies!” he shouted.  “See the old rag tumble!”

’Twas the only time M. Radisson gave vent to wrath.

“Dog!” he ground out, wrenching the gun from Gillam’s hands.

“Avast!  Avast!” cries Ben.  “He who lives in glass-houses needs not to throw stones!  Mind that, ye pirate!”

“Dog!” repeats M. Radisson, “dare to show disrespect to the Most Christian of Kings!”

“Most Christian of Kings!” flouts Ben.  “I’ll return to my fort!  Then I’ll show you what I’ll give the Most Christian of Kings!”

La Chesnaye rushed up with rash threat; but M. de Radisson pushed the merchant aside and stood very still, looking at Ben.

“Young man,” he began, as quietly as if he were wishing Ben the season’s compliments, “I brought you to this fort for the purpose of keeping you in this fort, and it is for me to say when you may leave this fort!”

Ben rumbled out a string of oaths, and M. Radisson motioned the soldiers to encircle him.  Then all Ben’s pot-valiant bravery ebbed.

“Am I a prisoner?” he demanded savagely.

“Prisoner or guest, according to your conduct,” answered Radisson lightly.  Then to the men—­“Form line-march!”

At the word we filed into the guard-room, where the soldiers relieved Gillam of pistol and sword.

“Am I to be shot?  Am I to be shot?” cried Gillam, white with terror at M. Radisson’s order to load muskets.  “Am I to be shot?” he whimpered.

“Not unless you do it yourself, and ’twould be the most graceful act of your life, Ben!  And now,” said M. Radisson, dismissing all the men but one sentinel for the door, “and now, Ben, a Merry Christmas to you, and may it be your last in Hudson Bay!”

With that he left Ben Gillam prisoner; but he ordered special watch to be kept on the fort bastions lest Ben’s bravado portended attack.  The next morning he asked Ben to breakfast with our staff.

“The compliments of the morning to you.  And I trust you rested well!” M. Radisson called out.

Ben wished that he might be cursed if any man could rest well on bare boards rimed with frost like curdled milk.

“Cheer up, man!  Cheer up!” encourages Radisson.  “There’s to be a capture to-day!”

“A capture!” reiterates Ben, glowering black across the table and doffing his cap with bad grace.

“Aye, I said a capture!  Egad, lad, one fort and one ship are prize enough for one day!”

“Sink my soul,” flouts Gillam, looking insolently down the table to the rows of ragged sailors sitting beyond our officers, “if every man o’ your rough-scuff had the nine lives of a cat, their nine lives would be shot down before they reached our palisades!”