“Four leagues down the river,” explained the governor.

“Under the river,” retorted Radisson, affecting not to hear.

“No—­down the river,” and the governor whisked round a bluff out of call.

The gray night shadows gathered against the woods.  Stars seeded the sky overhead till the whole heavens were aglow.  And the northern lights shot their arrowy jets of fire above the pole, rippled in billows of flame, scintillated with the faint rustling of a flag in a gale, or swung midway between heaven and earth like censers to the invisible God of that cold, far, northern world.

Then the bastions of Ben Gillam’s fort loomed above the wastes like the peak of a ship at sea, and M. Radisson issued his last commands.  Godefroy and I were to approach the main gate.  M. Radisson and his five men would make a detour to attack from the rear.

A black flag waved above the ship to signal those inland pirates whom Ben Gillam was ever cursing, and the main gates stood wide ajar.  Half a mile away Godefroy hallooed aloud.  A dozen New Englanders, led by the lieutenant, ran to meet us.

“Where is Master Ben?” demanded the leader.

“Le capitaine,” answered Godefroy, affecting broken English, “le capitaine, he is fatigue.  He is back—­voila—­how you for speak it?—­avec, monsieur!  Le capitaine, he has need, he has want for you to go with food.”

At that, with a deal of unguarded gabbling, they must hail us inside for refreshments, while half a dozen men ran in the direction Godefroy pointed with the food for their master.  No sooner were their backs turned than Godefroy whispers instructions to the marquis and his man, who had been left as hostages.  Foret strolled casually across to the guard-room, where the powder was stored.  Here he posted himself in the doorway with his sword jammed above the hinge.  His man made a precipitate rush to heap fires for our refreshment, dropping three logs across the fort gates and two more athwart the door of the house.  Godefroy and I, on pretext of scanning out the returning travellers, ran one to the nigh bastion, the other to the fore-deck of the ship, where was a swivel cannon that might have done damage.

Then Godefroy whistled.

Like wolves out of the earth rose M. Radisson and his five men from the shore near the gates.  They were in possession before the lieutenant and his men had returned.  On the instant when the surprised New Englanders ran up, Radisson bolted the gates.

“Where is my master?” thundered the lieutenant, beating for admission.

“Come in.”  M. Radisson cautiously opened the gate, admitting the lieutenant alone.  “It is not a question of where your master is, but of mustering your men and calling the roll,” said the Frenchman to the astounded lieutenant.  “You see that my people are in control of your powder-house, your cannon, and your ship.  Your master is a prisoner in my fort.  Now summon your men, and be glad Ben Gillam is not here to kill more of you as he killed your super-cargo!”