“We will dress your wound, monsieur,” said she. “Mother Pêche has a wondrous skill in such matters.” And she led the captain away. By this Marc was come up, with a squad of his men fully armed. Some half score approached the second cabin. A window opened, a thin stream of fire flashed out, with a sharp report of a pistol; and a man fell, shot through the head. Another report, with the red streak in the front of it, and a tall Acadian threw up his arms, screamed chokingly, and dropped across a coil of rope. The precise Lieutenant Shafto had awakened to the state of affairs. “Down with the door, men, before he can load again!” shouted Marc, springing forward; and long Philibert picked up a light spar which lay at hand, very well suited to the purpose. But there was no need of it. The door was thrown open, and in the light from Yvonne’s cabin was revealed the form of the English officer. He stood in his doorway, very angry and scornful, the point of his sword thrust passionately against the deck in front of him. A fine and a brave figure he was, as he stood there in his stockings, breeches, and fairly be-ruffled shirt—for he had not just now taken time to perfect his toilet with the customary care. In this attitude he paused for a second, lightly springing his sword, and scowling upon us. “I must ask you to surrender, monsieur,” said Marc, advancing. “The ship is in our hands. I shall be glad to accept your parole.” “I will not surrender!” he answered curtly. “If there be a gentleman among you who can use a sword, I am willing to fight him. If not, I will see how many more of this rabble I can take with me.” And he jerked his head toward the two whom he had shot down. “I will cross swords with you,” I cried, getting ahead of Marc, “and will count myself much honoured in meeting so brave a gentleman. But you English took my sword from me, and up to the present have neglected to give it back.” “I have swords, of course, monsieur,” he replied, his face lighting with satisfaction as he stepped back into his cabin to get them. But some one else was not satisfied. Yvonne’s hands were on my arm—her eyes, wide with terror, imploring mine. “Don’t! It will kill me, dear! Oh, what madness! Have you no pity for me!” she gasped. I looked at her reassuringly, not liking to say there was no danger, lest I should seem to boast; and so instant was her reading of my thought that even as I looked the fear died out of her face. “It is nothing, dear heart. Ask Marc,” I whispered. She turned to him with the question in her eyes. “Paul is the best sword in New France,” said Marc quietly, “not even excepting my father, the Sieur de Briart.” Now so quickly was the confidence of my own heart transferred into the heart of my beloved that she was no more afraid. Indeed, what she said was: