was odorous with the crisp smell of woods. When we came on deck, 'twas
to see the St. Pierre anchored in the cove of a river that raced to
meet the bay.

The screaming gulls knew not what to make of these strange visitors;
for we were at Port Nelson--Fort Bourbon, as the French called it.

And you must not forget that we were French on _that_ trip!


[1] These expressions are M. de Radisson's and not words coined by Mr.
Stanhope, as may be seen by reference to the French explorer's account
of his own travels, written partly in English, where he repeatedly
refers to a "pretty pickle." As for the ships, they seem to have been
something between a modern whaler and old-time brigantine.--_Author_.




CHAPTER VIII

M. DE RADISSON COMES TO HIS OWN

The sea was touched to silver by the rising sun--not the warm, red sun
of southern climes, nor yet the gold light of the temperate zones, but
the cold, clear steel of that great cold land where all the warring
elements challenge man to combat. Browned by the early frosts, with a
glint of hoar rime on the cobwebs among the grasses, north, south, and
west, as far as eye could see, were boundless reaches of hill and
valley. And over all lay the rich-toned shadows of early dawn.