Had spring come?  How long had I lain in the cave?  Before I gained strength to escape, would M. Radisson have left for Quebec?  Then came a black wave of memory—­thought of Jack Battle, the sailor lad, awaiting our return to rescue him.  From the first Jack and I had held together as aliens in Boston Town.  Should I lie like a stranded hull while he perished?  Risking spies on the watch, I struggled up and staggered across the cave to that blue flame quivering so mysteriously.  As I neared, the mystery vanished, for it was nothing more than one of those northern beds of combustibles—­gas, tar, or coal—­set burning by the ingenious pirates. [1]

The spirit was willing enough to help Jack, but the flesh was weak.  Presently I sank on the heaped pelts all atremble.  I had promised not to spy nor eavesdrop, but that did not prohibit escape.  But how could one forage for food with a right arm in bands and a left unsteady as aim of a girl?  Le Borgne had befriended me twice—­once in the storm, again on the hill.  Perhaps he might know of Jack.  I would wait the Indian’s return.  Meanwhile I could practise my strength by walking up and down the cave.

The walls were hung with pelts.  Where the dry clay crumbled, the roof had been timbered.  A rivulet of spring water bubbled in one dark corner.  At the same end an archway led to inner recesses.  Behind the skin doorway sounded heavy breathing, as of sleepers.  I had promised not to spy.  Turning, I retraced the way to the outer door.  Here another pelt swayed heavily in the wind.  Dank, earthy smells of spring, odours of leaves water-soaked by melting snows, the faint perfume of flowers pushing up through mats of verdure, blew in on the night breeze.

Pushing aside the flap, I looked out.  The spur of a steep declivity cut athwart the cave.  Now I could guess where I was.  This was the hill down which I had stumbled that night the voices had come from the ground.  Here the masked man had sprung from the thicket.  Not far off M. Radisson had first met the Indians.  To reach the French Habitation I had but to follow the river.

That hope set me pacing again for exercise; and the faster I walked the faster raced thoughts over the events of the crowded years.  Again the Prince Rupert careened seaward, bearing little Hortense to England.  Once more Ben Gillam swaggered on the water-front of Boston Town, boasting all that he would do when he had ship of his own.  Then Jack Battle, building his castles of fortune for love of Hortense, and all unconsciously letting slip the secret of good Boston men deep involved in pirate schemes.  The scene shifted to the far north, and a masked man had leaped from the forest dark only to throw down his weapon when the firelight shone on my face.  Again the white darkness of the storm, the three shadowy figures and Le Borgne sent to guide us back to the fort.  Again, to beat of drum and shriek of fife, M. Radisson was holding his own against the swarming savages that assailed the New Englanders’ fort.  Then I was living over the unspeakable horror of the Indian massacre ending in that awful wait on the crest of the hill.