And when night filled the forest with the
hoot of owl, and the far, weird cries of wild creatures on the rove,
there sped through the aisled columns of star light and shadow, the
ghostly figure of the French boy slim, and lithe as a willow, with
muscles tense as ironwood, and step silent as the mountain-cat. All
that night he ran without a single stop. Chill daybreak found him
still staggering on, over rocks slippery with the night frost, over
windfall tree on tree in a barricade, through brawling mountain brooks
where his moccasins broke the skim of ice at the edge, past rivers
where he half waded, half swam. He was now faint from want of food;
but fear spurred him on. The morning air was so cold that he found it
better to run than rest. By four of the afternoon he came to a
clearing in the forest, where was the cabin of a settler. A man was
chopping wood. Radisson ascertained that there were no Iroquois in the
cabin, and, hiding in it, persuaded the settler to carry a message to
Fort Orange, two miles farther on. While he waited Indians passed the
cabin, singing and shouting. The settler's wife concealed him behind
sacks of wheat and put out all lights. Within an hour came a rescue
party from Orange, who conducted him safely to the fort. For three
days Radisson hid in Orange, while the Mohawks wandered through the
fort, calling him by name.
Gifts of money from the Jesuit, Poncet, and from a Dutch merchant,
enabled Radisson to take ship from Orange to New York, and from New
York to Europe.
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