"Permit me," proffered the gentleman, with a broader smile, handing out his own rapier.
"Sir," said I, "your pardon, but the press-gang have been busy of late."
"And the sheriffs may be busy to-day," he laughed. "Black arts don't open stone walls, Ramsay."
And he sent the blade clanking home to its scabbard. His surtout falling open revealed a waistcoat of buckskin. I searched his face.
"M. de Radisson!"
"My hero of rescues," and he offered his hand. "And my quondam nephew," he added, laughing; for his wife was a Kirke of the English branch, and my aunt was married to Eli.
"Eli Kirke cannot know you are here, sir—"
"Eli Kirke need not know," emphasized Radisson dryly.
And remembering bits of rumour about M. Radisson deserting the English Fur Company, I hastened to add: "Eli Kirke shall not know!"
"Your wits jump quick enough sometimes," said he. "Now tell me, whose is she, and what value do you set on her?"