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. The position was too painful, too tragic, for even
the great emotion in her heart. Behind Iberville's courtesy she read the
deadly mischief. But she had a power born for imminent circumstances,
and her mind was made up as to her course. It had been made up when, at
the critical moment, she had called out Iberville's Christian name. She
rightly judged that this had saved her husband's life, for she guessed
that Iberville was the better swordsman.

She placed her hands with slight resistance on the arms of her husband,
who was about to clasp her to his breast, and said: "I am glad to find
you, George." That was all.

He also had heard that cry, "Pierre," and he felt shamed that his life