"Then you value it," she added. "You value my gift, and yet when my
husband is a prisoner, to what perilous ends God only knows, you deny me
to him. I will not plead; I ask as my right; I have come from Count
Frontenac; he sent me to this good priest here. Were my husband in the
citadel now I should be admitted. He is here with the man who, you know,
once said he loved me. My husband is wickedly held a prisoner; I ask for
entrance to him."
Pleading, apprehension, seemed gone from her; she stood superior to her
fear and sorrow. The priest reached a hand persuasively towards Perrot,
and he was about to speak, but Perrot, coming close to the troubled
wife, said: "The door is locked; they are there alone. I cannot let you
in, but come with me. You have a voice--it may be heard. Come."
Presently all three were admitted into the dim hallway.
CHAPTER XXIV
IN WHICH THE SWORD IS SHEATHED
How had it gone with Iberville and Gering?
The room was large, scantily, though comfortably, furnished. For a
moment after they took up their swords they eyed each other calmly.
Iberville presently smiled: he was recalling that night, years ago, when
by the light of the old Dutch lantern they had fallen upon each other,
swordsmen, even in those days, of more than usual merit.
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