claimed with a sudden impetuous stamp.

Leaving her with the slaves, I took Le Borgne with me to the
Habitation. Here, I told all to M. Radisson. And his quick mind
seized this, too, for advantage.

"Precious pearls," he exclaims, "but 'tis a gift of the gods!"

"Sir?"

"Pardieu, Chouart; listen to this," and he tells his kinsman,
Groseillers.

"Why not?" asks Groseillers. "You mean to send her to Mary Kirke?"

Mary Kirke was Pierre Radisson's wife, who would not leave the English
to go to him when he had deserted England for France.

"Sir John Kirke is director of the English Company now. He hath been
knighted by King Charles. Mary and Sir John will present this little
maid at the English court. An she be not a nine days' wonder there, my
name is not Pierre Radisson. If she's a court ward, some of the crew
must take care of her."

Groseillers smiled. "An the French reward us not well for this
winter's work, that little maid may open a door back to England; eh,
kinsman?"

'Twas the same gamestering spirit carrying them through all hazard that
now led them to prepare for fresh partnership, lest France played
false. And as history tells, France played very false indeed.

CHAPTER XXII

WE LEAVE THE NORTH SEA

So Sieur Radisson must fit out a royal flotilla to carry Mistress
Hortense to the French Habitation. And gracious acts are like the gift
horse: you must not look them in the mouth. For the same flotilla that
brought Hortense brought all M. Picot's hoard of furs. Coming down the
river, lying languidly back among the peltries of the loaded canoe,
Hortense, I mind, turned to me with that honest look of hers and asked
why Sieur Radisson sent to fetch her in such royal state.

"I am but a poor beggar like your little Jack Battle," she protested.

I told her of M. Radisson's plans for entrance to the English court,
and the fire that flashed to her eyes was like his own.

"Must a woman ever be a cat's-paw to man's ambitions?" she asked, with
a gleam of the dark lights. "Oh, the wilderness is different," says
Hortense with a sigh. "In the wild land, each is for its own! Oh, I
love it!" she adds, with a sudden lighting of the depths in her eyes.

"Love--what?"

"The wilderness," says Hortense. "It is hard, but it's free and it's
pure and it's true and it's strong!"

And she sat back among the pillows.

When we shot through racing rapids--"sauter les rapides," as our French
voyag