of the vulgar.

"Ramsay," said M. Radisson, speaking very low and tense, "As you hope
to live and without a lie, what--does--this--mean?"

"Sir, as I hope to live--I--do--not--know!"

He continued to search me with doubting looks. I raised my wounded
hand.

"Will you do me the honour to satisfy yourself that wound is genuine?"

"Pish!" says he.

He studied the ground. "There's nothing impossible on this earth.
Facts are hard dogs to down.--Jean," he called, "gather up the pelts!
It takes a man to trade well, but any fool can make fools drink!
Godefroy--give the knaves the rum--but mind yourselves," he warned,
"three parts rain-water!" Then facing me, "Take me to that bank!"

He followed without comment.

At the place of the camp-fire were marks of the struggle.

"The same boot-prints as on the sand! A small man," observed Radisson.

But when we came to the sloping bank, where the land fell sheer away to
a dry, pebbly reach, M. Radisson pulled a puzzled brow.

"They must have taken shelter from the rain. They must have been under
your feet."

"But where are their foot-marks?" I asked.

"Washed out by the rain," said he; but that was one of the untruths
with which a man who is ever telling untruths sometimes deceives
himself; for if the bank sheltered the intruders from the rain, it also
sheltered their foot-marks, and there was not a trace.

"All the same," said M. de Radisson, "we shall make these Indians our
friends by taking them back to the fort with us."

"Ramsay," he remarked on the way, "there's a game to play."

"So it seems."

"Hold yourself in," said he sententiously.

I walked on listening.

"One plays as your friend, the other as your foe! Show neither friend
nor foe your hand! Let the game tell! 'Twas the reined-in horse won
King Charles's stakes at Newmarket last year! Hold yourself in, I say!"

"In," I repeated, wondering at this homily.

"And hold yourself up," he continued. "That coxcomb of a marquis
always trailing his dignity in the dust of mid-road to worry with a
common dog like La Chesnaye--pish! Hold your self-respect in the chest
of your jacket, man! 'Tis the slouching nag that loses the race! Hold
yourself up!"

His words seemed hard sense plain spoken.

"And let your feet travel on," he added.

"In and up and on!" I repeated.

"In and up and on--there's mettle for you, lad!"

And with that terse text--which, I think, comprehended the whole of M.
Rad