And when he regained his feet, Governor Brigdar, of the Hudson’s Bay Company, stood face to face with M. de Radisson.

“A right warm welcome, Your Excellency,” bowed M. de Radisson, bolting the gate.  “The New Englanders are in safe keeping, sir, and so are you!”

The bewildered governor gasped at M. Radisson’s words.  Then he lost all command of himself.

“Radisson, man,” he stormed, “this is no feint—­this is no time for acting!  Six o’ my men shot on the way—­four hiding by the ship and the Indians not a hundred yards behind!  Take my sword and pistol,” he proffered, M. de Radisson still hesitating, “but as you hope for eternal mercy, call in my four men!”

After that, all was confusion.

Foret and the marquis rushed pell-mell for the fort with four terrified Englishmen disarmed.  The gates were clapped to.  Myriad figures darted from the frost mist—­figures with war-paint on their faces and bodies clothed in white to disguise approach.  English and French, enemies all, crouched to the palisades against the common foe, with sword-thrust for the hands catching at pickets to scale the wall and volleying shots that scattered assailants back.  The redskins were now plainly visible through the frost.  When they swerved away from shelter of the ship, every bastion let go the roar of a cannon discharge.  There was the sudden silence of a drawing off, then the shrill “Ah-o-o-o-oh!  Ah-o-o-o-oh!  Ah-o-o-o-oh!” of Indian war-cry!

And M. Radisson gave the signal.

Instantaneously half a hundred lights were aflare.  Red tongues of fire darted from the loop-holes.  Two lads were obeying our leader’s call to run—­run—­run, blowing fife, beating drum like an army’s band, while streams of boiling grease poured down from bastions and lookout.  Helmets, hats, and caps sticking round on the poles were lighted up like the heads of a battalion; and oft as any of us showed himself he displayed fresh cap.  One Indian, I mind, got a stockade off and an arm inside the wall.  That arm was never withdrawn, for M. Radisson’s broadsword came down, and the Indian reeled back with a yelping scream.  Then the smoke cleared, and I saw what will stay with me as long as memory lasts—­M.  Radisson, target for arrows or shot, long hair flying and red doublet alight in the flare of the torches, was standing on top of the pickets with his right arm waving a sword.

“Whom do you make them out to be, Ramsay?” he called.  “Is not yon Le Borgne?”

I looked to the Indians.  Le Borgne it was, thin and straight, like a mast-pole through mist, in conference with another man—­a man with a beard, a man who was no Indian.

“Sir!” I shouted back.  “Those are the inland pirates.  They are leading the Indians against Ben Gillam, and not against us at all.”

At that M. Radisson extends a handkerchief on the end of his sword as flag of truce, and the bearded man waves back.  Down from the wall jumps M. Radisson, running forward fearlessly where Indians lay wounded, and waving for the enemy to come.  But the two only waved back in friendly fashion, wheeled their forces off, and disappeared through the frost.