est, a mighty pitch that
threw tipstaff sprawling across the table. And the beer went full in
the face of the marquis.

"There's a health to you, Foret!" roared the merchant in whirlwinds of
laughter.

But the marquis had gone heels over head. He gained his feet as the
ship righted, whipped out his rapier, vowed he would dust somebody's
jacket, and caught up Godefroy on the tip of his sword by the rascal's
belt.

"Foret, I protest," cried M. Radisson, scarce speaking for laughter, "I
protest there's nothing spilt but the beer and the dignity! The beer
can be mopped. There's plenty o' dignity in the same barrel. Save
Godefroy! We can ill spare a man!"

With a quick rip of his own rapier, Radisson had cut Godefroy's belt
and the wretch scuttled up-stairs out of reach. Sailors wiped up the
beer, and all hands braced chairs 'twixt table and wall to await M.
Radisson's pleasure.

He had dressed with unusual care. Gold braid edged his black doublet,
and fine old Mechlin came back over his sleeves in deep ruffs. And in
his eyes the glancing light of steel striking fire.

Bidding the sailors take themselves off, M. Radisson drew his blade
from the scabbard and called attention by a sharp rap.

Quick silence fell, and he laid the naked sword across the table. His
right hand played with the jewelled hilt. Across his breast were
medals and stars of honour given him by many monarchs. I think as we
looked at our leader every man of us would have esteemed it honour to
sail the seas in a tub if Pierre Radisson captained the craft.

But his left hand was twitching uneasily at his chin, and in his eyes
were the restless lights.

"Gentlemen," says he, as unconcerned as if he were forecasting weather,
"gentlemen, I seem to have heard that the crew of my kinsman's ship
have mutinied."

We were nigh a thousand leagues from rescue or help that day!

"Mutinied!" shrieks La Chesnaye, with his voice all athrill.
"Mutinied? What will my father have to say?"

And he clapped his tilted chair to floor with a thwack that might have
echoed to the fo'castle.

"Shall I lend you a trumpet, La Chesnaye, or--or a fife?" asks M.
Radisson, very quiet.

And I assure you there was no more loud talk in the cabin that day;
only the long, low wash and pound and break of the seas abeam, with the
surly wail that portends storm. I do not believe any of us ever
realized what a frail chip was between life and eternity till we heard
t