Blood stood twirling his mustaches and tapping his sword-handle
impatiently. He was as swarth and straight and dauntless as Pierre
Radisson, with a sinister daring in his eyes that might have put the
seal to any act.

"Egad's life!" he exclaimed, "do fur-traders keep royalty awaiting?"

And our irate gentleman must needs haste across to the Lion, where
awaited the Company Governor, the Duke of York, with all the merry
young blades of the court. King Charles's reign was a time of license,
you have been told. What that meant you would have known if you had
seen the Fur Company at dinner. Blood, Senior, I mind, had a
drinking-match against Sir George Jeffreys, the judge; and I risk not
my word on how much those two rascals put away. The judge it was who
went under mahogany first, though Colonel Blood scarce had wit enough
left to count the winnings of his wager. Young Lieutenant Blood stood
up on his chair and bawled out some monstrous bad-writ verse to "a
fair-dark lady"--whatever that meant--"who was as cold as ice and
combustible as gunpowder." Healths were drunk to His Majesty King
Charles, to His Royal Highness the Duke of York, to our councillors of
the Company, to our governors of the fur-posts, and to the captains.
Then the Duke of York himself lifted the cup to Pierre Radisson's
honour; whereat the young courtiers raised such a cheering, the grim
silence of Pierre Radisson's detractors passed unnoticed. After the
Duke of York had withdrawn, our riotous sparks threw off all restraint.
On bended knee they drank to that fair evil woman whom King Louis had
sent to ensnare King Charles. Odds were offered on how long her power
with the king would last. Then followed toasts to a list of
second-rate names, dancing girls and French milliners, who kept place
of assignation for the dissolute crew, and maids of honour, who were no