The officer galloped off. "Keep an eye open, Radisson," he shouted over his shoulder.
"'Twere better shut," says M. Radisson softly; and at his name my blood pricked to a jump.
Here was he of whom Ben Gillam told, the half-wild Frenchman, who had married the royalist kinswoman of Eli Kirke; the hero of Spanish fights and Turkish wars; the bold explorer of the north sea, who brought back such wealth from an unknown land, governors and merchant princes were spying his heels like pirates a treasure ship.
"'Tis more sport hunting than being hunted," he remarked, with an air of quiet reminiscence.
His suit was fine-tanned, cream buckskin, garnished with gold braid like any courtier's, with a deep collar of otter. Unmindful of manners, I would have turned again to stare, but he bade me guide the horse back to my home.
"Lest the hunters ask questions," he explained. "And what," he demanded, "what doth a little cavalier in a Puritan hotbed?"
"I am even where God hath been pleased to set me, sir."
"'Twas a ticklish place he set thee when I came up."
"By your leave, sir, 'tis a higher place than I ever thought to know."
M. Radisson laughed a low, mellow laugh, and, vowing I should be a court gallant, put me down before Eli Kirke's turnstile.