M. de Radisson utters another loud laugh.
Comes a knocking, and there appears at the door Colonel Blood, father
of the young lieutenant, with a message from the king.
"Gentlemen," announces the freebooter, "His Majesty hath bespoke dinner
for the Fur Company at the Lion. His Royal Highness, the Duke of York,
hath ordered Madeira for the councillors' refreshment, and now awaits
your coming!"
For the third time M. Radisson laughs aloud with a triumph of insolence.
"Come, gentlemen," says he, "I've countered. Let us be going. His
Royal Highness awaits us across the way."
Blood stood twirling his mustaches and tapping his sword-handle
impatiently. He was as swarth and straight and dauntless as Pierre
Radisson, with a sinister daring in his eyes that might have put the
seal to any act.
"Egad's life!" he exclaimed, "do fur-traders keep royalty awaiting?"
And our irate gentleman must needs haste across to the Lion, where
awaited the Company Governor, the Duke of York, with all the merry
young blades of the court. King Charles's reign was a time of license,
you have been told. What that meant you would have known if you had
seen the Fur Company at dinner. Blood, Senior, I mind, had a
drinking-match against Sir George Jeffreys, the judge; and I risk not
my word on how much those two rascals put away.
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