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Peter was heavily forested; the north, shallow. The lake was flooded with spring thaw, and the Mohawks could scarcely find camping-ground among the islands. The young prisoner was deathly sick from the rank food that he had eaten and heart-sick from the widening distance between himself and Three Rivers. Still, they treated him kindly, saying, "Chagon! Chagon! Be merry! Cheer up!"
Striking his hatchet through a kettle of sagamite to signify thus would he break peace to all Radisson's foes, the old Iroquois warrior made a speech to the assembled guests. The guests clapped their hands and shouted, "Chagon, Orimha! Be merry, Pierre!" The Frenchman had been formally adopted as a Mohawk. The forests were now painted in all the glories of autumn.
She cut the thongs that bound him to the poles, and wresting him free shoved him to her husband, who led Radisson to their own lodge. "Thou fool," cried the old chief, "thou wast my son! Thou makest thyself an enemy! Thou lovest us not, though we saved thy life! Wouldst kill me, too?" Then, with a rough push to a mat on the ground, "Chagon now, be merry! It's a merry business you've got into!
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