"Le Borgne, you rascal, you know who gave me this," I began, taking
careful scrutiny of the Indian.
One eye was glazed and sightless, the other yellow like a fox's; but
the fellow was straight, supple, and clean-timbered as a fresh-hewn
mast. With a "huh-huh," he gabbled back some answer.
"What does he say, Godefroy?"
"He says he doesn't understand the white-man's tongue--which is a lie,"
added Godefroy of his own account. "Le Borgne was interpreter for the
Fur Company at the south of the bay the year that M. Radisson left the
English."
Were my assailants, then, Hudson's Bay Company men come up from the
south end of James Bay? Certainly, the voice had spoken English. I
would have drawn Godefroy aside to inform him of my adventure, but Le
Borgne stuck to us like a burr. Jean was busy helping M. de Radisson
at the trade, or what was called "trade," when white men gave an awl
for forty beaver-skins.
"Godefroy," I said, "keep an eye on this Indian till I speak to M. de
Radisson." And I turned to the group. 'Twas as pretty a bit of colour
as I have ever seen. The sea, like silver, on one side; the
autumn-tinted woods, brown and yellow and gold, on the other; M. de
Radisson in his gay dress surrounded by a score of savages with their
faces and naked chests painted a gaudy red, headgear of swans' down,
eagle quills depending from their backs, and buckskin trousers fringed
with the scalp-locks of the slain.
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