Therefore, at the moment when Gering was pressing
Iberville hard, the Frenchman suddenly, with a trick of the Italian
school, threw his left leg en arriere and made a lunge, which ordinarily
would have spitted his enemy, but at the critical moment one word came
ringing clearly through the locked door. It was his own name, not
Iberville, but--"Pierre! Pierre!"
He had never heard the voice speak that name. It put out his judgment,
and instead of his sword passing through Gering's body it only grazed his
ribs.
Perhaps there was in him some ancient touch of superstition, some sense
of fatalism, which now made him rise to his feet and throw his sword upon
the table.
"Monsieur," he said cynically, "again we are unfortunate."
Then he went to the door, unlocked it, and threw it open upon Jessica.
She came in upon them trembling, pale, yet glowing with her anxiety.
Instantly Iberville was all courtesy. One could not have guessed that he
had just been engaged in a deadly conflict. As his wife entered, Gering
put his sword aside. Iberville closed the door, and the three stood
looking at each other for a moment. Jessica did not throw herself into
her husband's arms.
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