"You said you knew nothing of the chaplain," I broke out. "Not so. I said he was on no record given me. Officially I know nothing of him." "Come," said I, "you know well how I am concerned for him. You quibble; you lied to our General." A wicked light shone in his eyes. "I choose to pass that by, for the moment," said he. "I am sorry you forget yourself; it were better for you and me to be courteous till our hour of reckoning, Shall we not meet some day?" he said, with a sweet hatred in his tone. "With all my heart." "But where?" "In yonder town," said I, pointing. He laughed provokingly. "You are melodramatic," he rejoined. "I could hold that town with one thousand men against all your army and five times your fleet." "You have ever talked and nothing done," said I. "Will you tell me the truth of the chaplain?" "Yes, in private the truth you shall hear," he said. "The man is dead." "If you speak true, he was murdered," I broke out. "You know well why." "No, no," he answered. "He was put in prison, escaped, made for the river, was pursued, fought, and was killed. So much for serving you." "Will you answer me one question?" said I. "Is my wife well? Is she safe? She is there set among villainies." "Your wife?" he answered, sneering. "If you mean Mademoiselle Duvarney, she is not there." Then he added solemnly and slowly: "She is in no fear of your batteries now--she is beyond them. When she was there, she was not child enough to think that foolish game with the vanished chaplain was a marriage. Did you think to gull a lady so beyond the minute's wildness? She is not there," he added again in a low voice. "She is dead?" I gasped. "My wife is dead?" "Enough of that," he answered with cold fierceness. "The lady saw the folly of it all, before she had done with the world. You--you, monsieur! It was but the pity of her gentle heart, of a romantic nature. You--you blundering alien, spy, and seducer!" With a gasp of anger I struck him in the face, and whipped out my sword. But the officers near came instantly between us, and I could see that they thought me gross, ill-mannered, and wild, to do this thing before the General's tent, and to an envoy. Doltaire stood still a moment. Then presently wiped a little blood from his mouth, and said: "Messieurs, Captain Moray's anger was justified; and for the blow he will justify that in some happier time--for me. He said that I had lied, and I proved him wrong. I called him a spy and a seducer--he sought to shame, he covered with sorrow, one of the noblest families of New France--and he has yet to prove me wrong. As envoy I may not fight him now, but I may tell you that I have every cue to send him to hell one day. He will do me the credit to say that it is not cowardice that stays me." "If no coward in the way of fighting, coward in all other things," I retorted instantly.