And the rafters rang so loud with the merriment that we none of us noticed the door flung open, nor saw two figures stamping off the snow till they had thrown a third man bound at M. de Radisson's feet. The messengers sent to spy out the marsh had returned with a half-frozen prisoner.
"We found him where the ice is soft. He was half dead," explained one scout.
Silence fell. Through the half-dark the Indian glided towards the door. The unconscious prisoner lay face down.
"Turn him over," ordered Radisson.
As our men rolled him roughly over, the captive uttered a heavy groan. His arms fell away from his face revealing little Jack Battle, the castaway, in a haven as strange as of old.
"Search him before he wakes," commanded Radisson roughly.
"Let me," I asked.
In the pouches of the caribou coat was only pemmican; but my hand crushed against a softness in the inner waistcoat. I pulled it out—a little, old glove, the colour Hortense had dangled the day that Ben Gillam fell into the sea.
"Pish!" says Radisson. "Anything else?"
There crumpled out a yellow paper. M. Radisson snatched it up.