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Updated: May 25, 2025
Finally, on taking leave, the good Squire put in his son's hands, as a manual, one of his favourite old volumes, the life of the Chevalier Bayard, by Godefroy; on a blank page of which he had written an extract from the Morte d'Arthur, containing the eulogy of Sir Ector over the body of Sir Launcelot of the Lake, which the Squire considers as comprising the excellencies of a true soldier.
"Pot o' beer, tipstaff," orders Radisson; and Godefroy goes off slapping his buckskins with glee. M. Radisson no more takes off his hat than a king's ambassador, but he waits for La Chesnaye and Forêt to uncover.
Where are the tribes with whom Godefroy and Jack Battle and I wandered in nomadic life over the northern wastes? Buried in oblivion black as night, but for the lurid memories flashed down to you of later generations.
"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.
By this, La Chesnaye had distributed so generous a treat that half the sailors were roaring out hilarious mirth. Godefroy astride a bench played big drum on the wrong-end-up of the cook's dish-pan. Allemand attempted to fiddle a poker across the tongs.
The captain of the Dutch ship Caper had sent word of the French explorers to De Witt, the great statesman. De Witt despatched a spy from Picardy, France, one Eli Godefroy Touret, who chanced to know Groseillers, to meet the explorers in London. Masking as Groseillers' nephew, Touret tried to bribe both men to join the Dutch.
I must see the Prefect." He slipped a louis into the hand of the concierge. The good old soul, a veteran with a gray mustache, less for the sake of the money than out of compassion for the poor father, led him to the Prefect's private apartments. M. Godefroy was finally ushered into the room of the man in whom were centred all his hopes.
Then I called M. Radisson, who said it was Le Borgne, the wall-eyed Indian. Godefroy vowed 'twas a spy from Ben Gillam's fort. The Indian mumbled some superstition of a manitou. To me it seemed like a caribou; for it faded to nothing the way those fleet creatures have of skimming into distance. M. Radisson had reckoned well.
There was a quick thrust, answered by Godefroy's counter-stroke at the stern; and the canoe grazed past the rocks not a hair's-breadth off. "Sainte Anne ha' mercy!" mumbled Godefroy, baling water from the canoe as we breasted a turn in the river to calmer currents, "Sainte Anne ha' mercy! But the master'd run us over Niagara, if he had a mind."
At this came a harsh laugh from a taciturn Indian standing on the outer rim of the crowd. It was the fellow who had run through the forest with the torch. "Who is that, Godefroy?" "Le Borgne." "Le Borgne need not laugh," retorted M. de Radisson sharply. "Le Borgne knows the taste of fire-water! Le Borgne has been with the white-man at the south, and knows what the white-man says is true."
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