of surf against coast rocks. Then M. de Radisson did the maddest thing
that ever I have seen. Both sounds told of the coming tempest. The
veering wind settled to a driving nor'easter, and M. de Radisson was
steering straight as a bullet to the mark for that rock wall.

But I did not know that coast. When our ship was but three lengths
from destruction the St. Pierre answered to the helm. Her prow rounded
a sharp rock. Then the wind caught her, whirling her right about; but
in she went, stern foremost, like a fish, between the narrow walls of a
fiord to the quiet shelter of a land-locked lagoon. Pierre Radisson
had taken refuge in what the sailors call "a hole in the wall."

There we lay close reefed, both anchors out, while the hurricane held
high carnival on the outer sea.

After we had put the St. Pierre ship-shape, M. Radisson stationed Jean
and me fore and aft with muskets levelled, and bade us shoot any man
but himself who appeared above the hatch. Arming himself with his
short, curved hanger--oh, I warrant there would have been a carving
below decks had any one resisted him that day!--down he went to the
mutineers of the dim-lighted forehold.

Perhaps the storm had quelled the spirit of rebellion; but up came M.
de Radisson, followed by the entire crew--one fellow's head in white
cotton where it had struck the floor, and every man jumping keen to
answer his captain's word.

I must not forget a curious thing that happened as we lay at anchor.
The storm had scarce abated when a strange ship poked her jib-boom
across the entrance to the lagoon, followed by queer-rigged black sails.