"I'd as lief be a pirate myself, as be shot down by pirates," grumbled the trader, giving a hand to hoist the shed of sheet canvas that was to shield us from the rains now aslant against the seaward horizon.
At the words M. Radisson turned sharply; but the heedless fellow gabbled on.
"Where is a man to take cover, an the buccaneers began shooting from the bush behind?" demanded Godefroy belligerently.
M. Radisson reached one arm across the fire. "I'll show you," said he. Taking Godefroy by the ear, with a prick of the sword he led the lazy knave quick march to the beach, where lay our canoe bottom up.
"Crawl under!" M. Radisson lifted the prow.
From very shame—I think it was—Godefroy balked; but M. Radisson brought a cutting rap across the rascal's heels that made him hop. The canoe clapped down, and Godefroy was safe. "Pardieu," mutters Radisson, "such cowards would turn the marrow o' men's bones to butter!"
Sitting on a log, with his feet to the fire, he motioned Jean and me to come into the shelter of the slant canvas; for the clouds were rolling overhead black as ink and the wind roared up the river-bed with a wall of pelting rain. M. Radisson gazed absently into the flame. The steel lights were at play in his eyes, and his lips parted.
"Storm and cold—man and beast—powers of darkness and devil—knaves and fools and his own sins—he must fight them all, lads," says M. Radisson slowly.
"Who must fight them all?" asks Jean.
"The victor," answers Radisson, and warm red flashed to the surface of the cold steel in his eyes.