"Jean," he began, looking up quickly towards the gathering darkness of the woods.
"Sir?"
"'Tis cold enough for hunters to want a fire."
"Is the fire not big enough?"
"Now, where are your wits, lad? If hunters were hiding in that bush, one could see this fire a long way off. The wind is loud. One could go close without being heard. Pardieu, I'll wager a good scout could creep up to a log like this"—touching the pine on which we sat—-"and hear every word we are saying without a soul being the wiser!"
Jean turned with a start, half-suspecting a spy. Radisson laughed.
"Must I spell it out? Eh, lad, afraid to go?"
The taunt bit home. Without a word Jean and I rose.
"Keep far enough apart so that one of you will escape back with the news," called Radisson, as we plunged into the woods.
Of the one who might not escape Pierre Radisson gave small heed, and so did we. Jean took the river side and I the inland thicket, feeling our way blindly through the blackness of forest and storm and night. Then the rain broke—broke in lashing whip-cords with the crackle of fire. Jean whistled and I signalled back; but there was soon such a pounding of rains it drowned every sound. For all the help one could give the other we might have been a thousand miles apart. I looked back. M. Radisson's fire threw a dull glare into the cavernous upper darkness. That was guide enough. Jean could keep his course by the river.