Go on!"
"Godefroy, the English trader--he sulks--he's English--he'll do!"
"Five," laughs M. Radisson.
And for the remaining two, Ben Gillam chose a scullion lad and a wretched
little stowaway, who had kept hidden under hatches till we were too far
out to send him back. At the last choice our men shouted and clapped and
stamped and broke into snatches of song about conquerors.
CHAPTER XV
THE BATTLE NOT TO THE STRONG
M. Radisson turned the sand-glass up to time our preparations. Before
the last grain fell we seven were out, led by M. Radisson, speeding
over the snow-drifted marsh through the thick frosty darkness that lies
like a blanket over that northland at dawn. The air hung heavy, gray,
gritty to the touch with ice-frost. The hard-packed drifts crisped to
our tread with little noises which I can call by no other name than
frost-shots. Frost pricked the taste to each breath. Endless reaches
of frost were all that met the sight. Frost-crackling the only sound.
Frost in one's throat like a drink of water, and the tingle of the
frost in the blood with a leap that was fulness of life.
Up drifts with the help of our muskets! Down hills with a rush of
snow-shoes that set the powdery snow flying! Skimming the levels with
the silent speed of wings! Past the snow mushrooms topping underbrush
and the snow cones of the evergreens and the snow billows of under
rocks and the snow-wreathed antlers of the naked forest in a world of
snow!
The morning stars paled to steel pin-pricks through a gray sky.
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