“But at night—­at night,” roared Godefroy between blows.

“The night—­knave,” hissed out Radisson, “the night is lighter than morning with the north light.  The night”—­this with a last drive—­“the night is same as day to man of spirit!  ’Tis the sort of encouragement half the world needs to succeed,” said M. Radisson, throwing down the cudgel.

And Godefroy, the skulker, was glad to run for the marsh.  The rest of us waited no urgings, but were to our posts on the run.

I saw M. Radisson passing fife, piccolo, trumpet, and drum to the two tatterdemalion lads of our army.

“Now blow like fiends when I give the word,” said he.

Across the courtyard, single file, marched the New Englanders from barracks to boat.  La Chesnaye leading with drawn sword, the marquis following with pointed musket.

Foret and La Chesnaye then mounted guard at the gate.  The sailor of our company was heaping cannon-balls ready for use.  Jack Battle scoured the fort for odd headgear.  M. de Radisson was everywhere, seizing papers, burying ammunition, making fast loose stockades, putting extra rivets in hinges, and issuing quick orders that sent Jack Battle skipping to the word.  Then Jack was set to planting double rows of sticks inside on a level with the wall.  The purpose of these I could not guess till M. Radisson ordered hat, helmet, or cap clapped atop of each pole.

Oh, we were a formidable army, I warrant you, seen by any one mounting the drift to spy across our walls!

But ’twas no burlesque that night, as you may know when I tell you that Governor Brigdar’s forces played us such a trick they were under shelter of the ship before we had discovered them.

Foret and La Chesnaye were watching from loopholes at the gates, and I was all alert from my place in the bastion.  The northern lights waved overhead in a restless ocean of rose-tinted fire.  Against the blue, stars were aglint with the twinkle of a million harbour lights.  Below, lay the frost mist, white as foam, diaphanous as a veil, every floating icy particle aglimmer with star rays like spray in sunlight.  Through the night air came the far howlings of the running wolf-pack.  The little ermine, darting across the level with its black tail-tip marking the snow in dots and dashes, would sit up quickly, listen and dive under, to wriggle forward like a snake; or the black-eyed hare would scurry off to cover of brushwood.

Of a sudden sounded such a yelling from the New Englanders imprisoned in the ship, with a beating of guns on the keel, that I gave quick alarm.  Foret and La Chesnaye sallied from the gate.  Pistol-shots rang out as they rounded the ship’s prow into shadow.  At the same instant, a man flung forward out of the frost cloud beating for admittance.  M. de Radisson opened.

“The Indians!  The Indians!  Where are the New Englanders?” cried the man, pitching headlong in.