The pack came on in a whirl to lose scent at the stream, and my rescuer
headed our horse away from the rabble, doffing his beaver familiarly to
the officers galloping past.
"Ha!" called one, reining his horse to its haunches, "did that
snivelling knave pass this way?"
"Do you mean this little gentleman?"
The officer galloped off. "Keep an eye open, Radisson," he shouted
over his shoulder.
"'Twere better shut," says M. Radisson softly; and at his name my blood
pricked to a jump.
Here was he of whom Ben Gillam told, the half-wild Frenchman, who had
married the royalist kinswoman of Eli Kirke; the hero of Spanish fights
and Turkish wars; the bold explorer of the north sea, who brought back
such wealth from an unknown land, governors and merchant princes were
spying his heels like pirates a treasure ship.
"'Tis more sport hunting than being hunted," he remarked, with an air
of quiet reminiscence.
His suit was fine-tanned, cream buckskin, garnished with gold braid
like any courtier's, with a deep collar of otter. Unmindful of
manners, I would have turned again to stare, but he bade me guide the
horse back to my home.
"Lest the hunters ask questions," he explained. "And what," he
demanded, "what doth a little cavalier in a Puritan hotbed?"
"I am even where God hath been pleased to set me, sir.
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