Then we were back to back fighting a horde of demons.

Godefroy fought cursing our souls to all eternity for embroiling him in peril.  Jack Battle fought mumbling feverishly, deliriously, unconscious of how he shot or what he said—­“Might as well die here as elsewhere!  Might as well die here as elsewhere!  Damn that Indian!  Give it to him, Ramsay!  You shoot while I prime!  Might as well die here as elsewhere——­”

And all fought resolute to die hard, when, where, or how the dying came!

To that desperate game there was but one possible end.  It is only in story-books writ for sentimental maids that the good who are weak defeat the wicked who are strong.  We shattered many an assailant before the last stake was dared, but in the end they shattered my sword-arm, which left me helpless as a hull at ebb-tide.  Then Godefroy, the craven rascal, must throw up his arms for surrender, which gave Le Borgne opening to bring down the butt of his gun on Jack’s crown.

The poor sailor went bundling over the snow like a shot rabbit.

When the frost smoke cleared, there was such a scene as I may not paint; for you must know that your Indian hero is not content to kill.  Like the ghoul, he must mutilate.  Of all the Indian band attacked by our forces, not one escaped except the girl, whose form I could descry nowhere on the stained snow.

Jack Battle presently regained his senses and staggered up to have his arms thonged behind his back.  The thongs on my arms they tightened with a stick through the loop to extort cry of pain as the sinew cut into the shattered wrist.  An the smile had cost my last breath, I would have defied their tortures with a laugh.  They got no cry from me.  Godefroy, the trader, cursed us in one breath and in the next threatened that the Indians would keep us for torture.

“You are the only man who can speak their language,” I retorted.  “Stop whimpering and warn these brutes what Radisson will do if they harm us!  He will neither take their furs nor give them muskets!  He will arm their enemies to destroy them!  Tell them that!”

But as well talk to tigers.  Le Borgne alone listened, his foxy glance fastened on my face with a strange, watchful look, neither hostile nor friendly.  To Godefroy’s threats the Indian answered that “white-man talk—­not true—­of all,” pointing to Jack Battle, “him no friend great white chief—­him captive——­”

Then Godefroy burst out with the unworthiest answer that ever passed man’s lips.

“Of course he’s a captive,” screamed the trader, “then take him and torture him and let us go!  ’Twas him stopped the Indian getting the girl!”

“Le Borgne,” I cut in sharply, “Le Borgne, it was I who stopped the Indian killing the girl!  You need not torture the little white-man.  He is a good man.  He is the friend of the great white chief.”

But Le Borgne showed no interest.  While the others stripped the dead and wreaked their ghoulish work, Le Borgne gathered up the furs of the Little Sticks and with two or three young men stole away over the crest of the hill.