the winnings of his wager.  Young Lieutenant Blood stood up on his chair and bawled out some monstrous bad-writ verse to “a fair-dark lady”—­whatever that meant—­“who was as cold as ice and combustible as gunpowder.”  Healths were drunk to His Majesty King Charles, to His Royal Highness the Duke of York, to our councillors of the Company, to our governors of the fur-posts, and to the captains.  Then the Duke of York himself lifted the cup to Pierre Radisson’s honour; whereat the young courtiers raised such a cheering, the grim silence of Pierre Radisson’s detractors passed unnoticed.  After the Duke of York had withdrawn, our riotous sparks threw off all restraint.  On bended knee they drank to that fair evil woman whom King Louis had sent to ensnare King Charles.  Odds were offered on how long her power with the king would last.  Then followed toasts to a list of second-rate names, dancing girls and French milliners, who kept place of assignation for the dissolute crew, and maids of honour, who were no maids of honour, but adventuresses in the pay of great men to advance their interest with the king, and riffraff women whose names history hath done well to forget.  To these toasts Colonel Blood and Pierre Radisson and I sat with inverted glasses.

While the inn was ringing to the shouts of the revellers, the freebooter leaned across to Pierre Radisson.

“Gad’s name if they like you,” he mumbled drunkenly.

“Who?” asked Radisson.

“Fur Company,” explained Blood.  “They hate you!  So they do me!  But if the king favours you, they’ve got to have you,” and he laughed to himself.

“That’s the way with me,” he whispered in drunken confidence to M. Radisson.  “What a deuce?” he asked, turning drowsily to the table.  “What’s my boy doing?”

Young Lieutenant Blood was to his feet holding a reaming glass high as his head.

“Gentlemen, I give you the sweet savage!” he cried, “the Diana of the snows—­a thistle like a rose—­ice that burns—­a pauper that spurns—­”

“Curse me if he doesn’t mean that saucy wench late come from your north fort,” interrupted the father.

My hands were itching to throw a glass in the face of father or son, but Pierre Radisson restrained me.

“More to be done sometimes by doing nothing,” he whispered.

The young fellows were on their knees draining bumpers; but Colonel Blood was rambling again.

“He gives ’em that saucy brat, does he?  Gad’s me, I’d give her to perdition for twopenny-worth o’ rat poison!  Look you, Radisson, ’tis what I did once; but she’s come back!  Curse me, I could ‘a’ done it neater and cheaper myself—­twopenny-worth o’ poison would do it, Picot said; but gad’s me, I paid him a hundred guineas, and here she’s come back again!”

“Blood . . .  Colonel Blood,” M. Picot had repeated at his death.

I had sprung up.  Again M. Radisson held me back.