It was safe to approach. Before they could arm we could escape.
But we were two men, one lad, and a neutral Indian against an armed
garrison in a land where killing was no murder.
M. de Radisson stood up and called in the Indian tongue. They did not
understand.
"New to it," commented Radisson, "not the Hudson's Bay Company!"
All the while he was imperceptibly approaching nearer. He shouted in
French. They shook their heads.
"English highwaymen, blundered in here by chance," said he.
Tearing off the Indian head-band of disguise, he demanded in mighty
peremptory tones who they were.
"English," they called back doubtfully.
"What have you come for?" insisted Radisson, with a great swelling of his
chest.
"The beaver trade," came a faint voice.
Where had I heard it before? Did it rise from the ground in the woods,
or from a far memory of children throwing a bully into the sea?
"I demand to see your license," boldly challenged Radisson.
At that the fellows ashore put their heads together.
"In the name of the king, I demand to see your license instantly,"
repeated Sieur de Radisson, with louder authority.
"We have no license," explained one of the men, who was dressed with
slashed boots, red doublet, and cocked hat.
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