Radisson need
never fear eternal torment.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because, if he goes _there_," answered Godefroy, "he'll get the better
o' the Nick."
I think the fellow was smarting from recent punishment. He and
Allemand, the drunken pilot, had been draining gin kegs on the sly and
replacing what they took with snow water. That last morning at prayers
Godefroy, who was half-seas over, must yelp out a loud "Amen" in the
wrong place. Without rising from his knees, or as much as changing his
tone, M. de Radisson brought the drunken knave such a cuff it flattened
him to the floor.
Then prayers went on as before.
The Indians, whom we had nursed of their wounds, were to lead us to the
tribe, one only being held by M. Radisson as hostage for safe conduct.
In my mind, that trust to the Indians' honour was the single mistake M.
Radisson made in the winter's campaign. In the first place, the Indian
has no honour. Why should he have, when his only standard of right is
conquest? In the second place, kindness is regarded as weakness by the
Indian. Why should it not be, when his only god is victory? In the
third place, the lust of blood, to kill, to butcher, to mutilate, still
surged as hot in their veins as on the night when they had attempted to
scale our walls.
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