"No-no-no" . . . then
the warning . . . "Hush!" . . . then the wind and the river and . . .
"No--no!" with words like oaths. . . . "No--I say, no! Having come so
far, no!--not if it were my own brother!" . . . then the low
"Hush!" . . . and pleadings . . . then--"Send Le Borgne!"
And an Indian had rushed past me in the dark with a pine fagot in his
hand.
Rising, I stole after him. 'Twas the fellow who had been at the fire
with that unknown assailant. He paused over the smouldering embers,
searching the ground, found the hilt of the broken sword, lifted the
severed blade, kicked leaves over all traces of conflict, and
extinguishing the fire, carried off the broken weapon. An Indian can
pick his way over known ground without a torch. What was this fellow
doing with a torch? Had he been sent for me? I drew back in shadow to
let him pass. Then I ran with all speed to the river.
Gray dawn came over the trees as I reached the swollen waters, and the
sun was high in mid-heaven when I came to the gravel patch where M. de
Radisson had camped. Round a sharp bend in the river a strange sight
unfolded.
A score of crested savages with painted bodies sat on the ground. In
the centre, clad like a king, with purple doublet and plumed hat and
velvet waistcoat ablaze with medals of honour--was M.
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