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. W