"It is sign of death! That was a woman's figure. It is sign
of death!"
"Sign of death!" raged Ben, stamping his impotent fury, "'tis him--'tis
him! The Judas Iscariot, and he's left us to die so that he may steal
the furs!"
"Hold quiet!" ordered M. Radisson. "Look, you rantipole--who is that?"
'Twas Le Borgne, the one-eyed, emerging from the gloom of the snow like
a ghost. By signs and Indian words the fellow offered to guide us back
to our Habitation.
We reached the fort that night, Le Borgne flitting away like a shadow,
as he had come. And the first thing we did was to hold a service of
thanks to God Almighty for our deliverance.
[1] See Radisson's account--Prince Society (1885), Boston--Bodleian
Library.--Canadian Archives, 1895-'96.
CHAPTER XIV
A CHALLENGE
Filling the air with ghost-shadows, silencing earth, muffling the sea,
day after day fell the snow. Shore-ice barred out the pounding surf.
The river had frozen to adamant. Brushwood sank in the deepening drifts
like a foundered ship, and all that remained visible of evergreens was an
occasional spar or snow mushroom on the crest of a branch.
No east, no west, no day, no night; nothing but a white darkness,
billowing snow, and a silence as of death.
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