"Clear the way!" came an angry order from the dark. "Clear—or we fire!"
"Fire if you dare, you fools!" I retorted, knowing well they would not alarm the fort, and we edged nearer the boat.
"Where's Eric Hamilton?" I demanded.
"A curse on you! None of your business! Get out of the way! Who are you?" growled the voice.
"Answer—quick!" I urged Father Holland, thinking they would respect holy orders; and I succeeded in bumping my craft against their canoe.
"Strike him with your paddle, man!" yelled the steersman, who was beyond reach.
"Give 'im a bullet!" called another.
"For shame, ye saucy divils!" shouted the priest, shaking his torch aloft and displaying his garb. "Shame to ye, threatenin' to shoot a missionary! Ye'd be much better showin' respect to the Church. Whur's Eric Hamilton?" he demanded in a fine show of indignation, and he caught the edge of their craft in his right hand.
"Let go!" and the steersman threateningly raised a pole that shone steel-shod.
"Let go—is ut ye're orderin' me?" thundered the holy man, now in a towering rage, and he flaunted the torch over the crew. "Howld y'r imp'dent tongues!" he shouted, shaking the canoe. "Be civil this minute, or I'll spill ye to the bottom, ye load of cursin' braggarts! Faith an' ut's a durty meal ye'd make for the fush! Foine answers ye give polite questions! How d'y' know we're not here to warn ye about the fort? For shame to ye. Whur's Eric Hamilton, I say?"