to parry, without thought of riposte, the successive lunges of the swift
blade. As he retreated, Gering felt, as he broke ground, that he was
nearing the wall, and, even as he parried, incautiously threw a half-
glance over his shoulder to see how near. Iberville saw his chance, his
finger was shaping a fatal lunge, when there suddenly came from the
hallway a woman's voice. So weird was it that both swordsmen drew back,
and once more Gering's life was waiting in the hazard.

Strange to say, Iberville recognised the voice first. He was angered
with himself now that he had paused upon the lunge and saved Gering.
Suddenly there rioted in him the disappointed vengeance of years. He had
lost her once by sparing this man's life. Should he lose her again? His
sword flashed upward.

At that moment Gering recognised his wife's voice, and he turned pale.
"My wife!" he exclaimed.

They closed again. Gering was now as cold as he had before been ardent,
and he played with malicious strength and persistency. His nerves seemed
of iron. But there had come to Iberville the sardonic joy of one who
plays for the final hazard, knowing that he shall win. There was one
great move he had reserved for the last. With the woman's voice at the
door beseeching, her fingers trembling upon the panel, they could
not prolong the fight. 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!"