"It is no dream, maid," returned Radisson sadly, "but cold reality. It behooves us to make some plan, my friends. Where think you we are, Jean?"
And now for the second time Gib answered to the French name. Truly, he seemed a person of many titles.
"I would say to the northwest of Albany," he replied slowly, cocking his evil face up at the sky. "The southern shore is lower than this, methinks. We might be near those barren lands the Chippewas tell of."
Radisson nodded. "So it seemed to me, although I have never been up through these more northern lands. Then our best plan will be to go south in the boat. Surely we ought to reach the fort within a day or so, and then—"
Radisson paused suddenly. I saw the eyes of Gib grow small and cold and hard, and they met those of the old wanderer insolently.
"And then?" He repeated half mockingly, with a triumphant leer. "England and France are at peace, in these parts! And perchance the Governor would pay as well for a certain hostage we wot of as would certain parties in New France."
Radisson said nothing, but looked at the man steadily for a long while, though I saw the cords of his neck bulge out. At length the bold eyes of Gib shifted and then fell beneath that intent look, and our leader spoke calmly and quietly.
"I think we will all be able to row in the morning. We will start then. If need be, we can make a sail of this canvas. This afternoon we will reload the boat."
Now it seemed to me that a single swift glance passed between Gib and Black Michael. Then the latter wagged his great beard dubiously.
"I fear me we are in no great spirit for rowing, Master Radisson," he grumbled, although an hour before he had been working well enough over the fire. "My joints are sore, and Eoghan here can barely move."