She married the defeated man. Perhaps she did not love him as much as he
loved her, but she knew that the other love, the love of the stranger,
was impossible--impossible. She came to care for her husband more and
more--she came to love him. She might have loved the stranger--who can
tell? But a woman's heart cannot be seized as a ship or a town. Believe
me, monsieur, I speak the truth. Years again passed: her husband's life
was in the stranger's hand. Through great danger she travelled to plead
for her husband's life. Monsieur, she does not plead for an unworthy
cause. She pleads for justice, in the name of honourable warfare, for
the sake of all good manhood. Will--will you refuse her?"

She paused. Gering's eyes were glistening. Her honesty, fine eloquence,
and simple sincerity, showed her to him in a new, strong light. Upon
Iberville, the greater of the two, it had a greater effect. He sat still
for a moment, looking at the woman with the profound gaze of one moved to
the soul. Then he got to his feet slowly, opened the door, and quietly
calling Perrot, whispered to him. Perrot threw up his hands in surprise,
and hurried away.

Then Iberville shut the door, and came back. Neither man had made any
show of caring for their wounds. Still silent, Iberville drew forth
linen and laid it upon the table. Then he went to the window, and as he
looked through the parted curtains out upon the water--the room hung over
the edge of the cliff-he bound his own shoulder. Gering had lost blood,
but weak as he was he carried himself well. For full half an hour
Iberville stood motionless while the wife bound her husband's wounds.

At length the door opened and Perrot entered. Iberville did not hear him
at first, and Perrot came over to him. "All is ready, monsieur," he
said.