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Updated: May 28, 2025
Godefroy, Jack Battle, and I would have hung to the rear and slipped away if we could; but the fate of an old man was warning enough. Muttering against the braves for embroiling themselves in war without cause, he fell away from the marauders as if to leave. Le Borgne's foxy eye saw the move. Turning, he rushed at the old man with a hiss of air through his teeth like a whistling arrow.
But Ben's head rolled drunkenly and he slid down in sodden sleep. Again the fort door opened with the rush of frost clouds, and in the midst of the white vapour hesitated three men. The door softly closed, and Le Borgne stole forward. "White-man promise no hurt good Indian?" he asked. "The white-man is Le Borgne's friend," assured Groseillers, "but who are these?"
He pointed to two figures, more dead than alive, chittering with cold. Le Borgne's foxy eye took on a stolid look. "White men lost in the snow," said he, "white-man from the big white canoe come walkee walkee one two three sleep watchee good Indian friend fort!"
A guttural grunt applauded Le Borgne's advice, and the crafty scoundrel continued: "The great medicine-man, the white hunter, who lived under the earth, was their friend. Was he not here among them? Let the braves hear what he advised." The Indians grunted their approbation. Some one stirred the fire to flame. There was a shuffling movement among the figures in the dark.
A log broke on the coals with a flare that painted Le Borgne's evil face fiery red; and the fellow gabbled on, with figure crouching stealthily forward, foxy eye alight with evil, and teeth glistening.
If the French captain will not let the prisoner go, then leave the three black-robes where they are; for, if you take them with you, they will bring you to trouble." Such was the substance of Le Borgne's harangue. The anxious priests hastened up to the fort, gained admittance, and roused Champlain from his slumbers.
Involuntarily Godefroy and I had risen to our feet. Emerging from the dusk to the firelight was a white man, gaudily clothed in tunic of scarlet with steel breastplates and gold lace enough for an ambassador. His face was hidden by Le Borgne's form. Godefroy pushed too far forward; for the next thing, a shout of rage rent the tent roof. Le Borgne was stamping out the fire.
All that night Ben swore deliriously that he would do worse to Le Borgne's master than he had done to the supercargo; but he never by any chance let slip who Le Borgne's master might be, though M. Radisson, Chouart Groseillers, young Jean, and I kept watch by turns lest the drunken knave should run amuck of our Frenchmen.
"Le Borgne's gone," said Godefroy breathlessly. "Gone?" repeated Radisson. "He left word for Master Stanhope from one who wishes him well " "One who wishes him well," repeated M. Radisson, looking askance at me. "For Master Stanhope not to be bitten twice by the same dog!"
"Le Borgne," I ask, "was any one here?" Le Borgne's cheeks corrugate in wrinkles of bronze that leer an evil laugh, and he pretends not to understand. "Le Borgne, was any one here with you?" Le Borgne shifts his spread feet, mutters a guttural grunt, and puffs out his torch; but the shafted flame reveals his shadow. I can still hear him beside me in the dark.
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