ng whisper, "I shot him--I
shot him with a brass button. The black arts are powerless agen brass.
Devil sink my soul if I didn't shoot him! The red--spattered over the
brush----"

M. Radisson raised a hand to silence my coming.

Ben's nose poked across the table, closer to Governor Brigdar's ear.

"But look you, Mister What's-y-er-name," says he.

"Don't you Mister me, you young cub!" interrupts the governor with a
pompous show of drunken dignity.

"A fig for Your Excellency," cries the young blackguard. "Who's who
when he's drunk? As I was a-telling, look you, though the red
spattered the bushes, when I run up he'd vanished into air with a flash
o' powder from my musket! 'Twas by the black arts that nigh hanged him
in Boston Town----"

At that, Governor Brigdar claps his hand to the table and swears that
he cares nothing for black arts if only the furs can be found.

"The furs--aye," husks Ben, "if we can only find the furs! An our men
hold together, we're two to one agen the Frenchies----"

"Ha," says M. Radisson. "Give you good-morning, gentlemen, and I hope
you find yourselves in health."

The two heads flew apart like the halves of a burst cannon-shell.
Thereafter, Radisson kept Ben and Governor Brigdar apart.

Of Godefroy and Jack Battle we could learn naught. Le Borgne would
never tell what he and M. Picot had seen that night they rescued me
from the hill. Whether Le Borgne and the hostiles of the massacre lied
or no, they both told the same story of Jack. While the tribe was
still engaged in the scalp-dance, some one had untied Jack's bands.
When the braves went to torture their captive, he had escaped. But
whither had he gone that he had not come back to us? Like the sea is
the northland, full of nameless graves; and after sending scouts far
and wide, we gave up all hope of finding the sailor lad.

But in the fort was another whose presence our rough fellows likened to
a star flower on the stained ground of some hard-fought battle. After
M. Radisson had quieted turbulent spirits by a reading of holy lessons,
Mistress Hortense queened it over our table of a Sunday at noon.
Waiting upon her at either hand were the blackamoor and the negress. A
soldier in red stood guard behind; and every man, officer, and commoner
down the long mess-table tuned his manners to the pure grace of her
fair face.

What a hushing of voices and cleansing of wits and disusing of oaths
was there after my littl