Radisson had risen. The Algonquin thrust one of the tomahawks into the
French lad's hands and pointed without a word at the three sleeping
Mohawks. Then the Indian began the black work. The Mohawk nearest the
fire never knew that he had been struck, and died without a sound.
Radisson tried to imitate the relentless Algonquin, but, unnerved with
horror, he bungled the blow and lost hold of the hatchet just as it
struck the Mohawk's head. The Iroquois sprang up with a shout that
awakened the third man, but the Algonquin was ready. Radisson's blow
proved fatal. The victim reeled back dead, and the third man was
already despatched by the Algonquin.

Radisson was free. It was a black deed that freed him, but not half so
black as the deeds perpetrated in civilized wars for less cause; and
for that deed Radisson was to pay swift retribution.

Taking the scalps as trophies to attest his word, the Algonquin threw
the bodies into the river. He seized all the belongings of the dead
men but one gun and then launched out with Radisson on the river. The
French youth was conscience-stricken. "I was sorry to have been in
such an encounter," he writes, "but it was too late to repent." Under
cover of the night mist and shore foliage, they slipped away with the
current. At first dawn streak, while the mist still hid them, they
landed, carried their canoe to a sequestered spot in the dense forest,
and lay hidden under the upturned skiff all that day, tormented by
swarms of mosquitoes and flies, but not daring to move from
concealment. At nightfall, they again launched down-stream, keeping
always in the shadows of the shore till mist and darkness shrouded
them, then sheering off for mid-current, where they paddled for dear
life. Where camp-fires glimmered on the banks, they glided past with
motionless paddles. Across Lake Champlain, across the Richelieu, over