“Indeed, then,” said Iberville, “this is a debt--if you choose to call it so--for which I would have no thanks--no. For it would please me better to render accounts all at once some day, and get return in different form, monsieur.” “Monsieur,” said Gering, a little grandly, “you have come to me three times; next time I will come to you.” “I trust that you will keep your word,” answered Iberville, smiling. That day Iberville, protesting helplessly, was ordered away to France on a man-of-war, which had rocked in the harbour of Quebec for a month awaiting his return. Even Frontenac himself could not help him, for the order had come from the French minister. CHAPTER XVII THE GIFT OF A CAPTIVE Fortune had not been kind to Iberville, but still he kept a stoical cheerfulness. With the pride of a man who feels that he has impressed a woman, and knowing the strength of his purpose, he believed that Jessica should yet be his. Meanwhile matters should not lie still. In those days men made love by proxy, and Iberville turned to De Casson and Perrot. The night before he started for France they sat together in a little house flanking the Chateau St. Louis. Iberville had been speaking. “I know the strength of your feelings, Iberville,” said De Casson, “but is it wise, and is it right?” Iberville made an airy motion with his hand. “My dear abbe, there is but one thing worth living for, and that is to follow your convictions. See: I have known you since you took me from my mother’s last farewell. I have believed in you, cared for you, trusted you; we have been good comrades. Come, now, tell me: what would you think if my mind drifted! No, no, no! to stand by one’s own heart is the gift of an honest man--I am a sad rogue, abbe, as you know, but I swear I would sooner let slip the friendship of King Louis himself than the hand of a good comrade. Well, my sword is for my king. I must obey him, I must leave my comrades behind, but I shall not forget, and they must not forget.” At this he got to his feet, came over, laid a hand on the abbe’s shoulder, and his voice softened: “Abbe, the woman shall be mine.” “If God wills so, Iberville.” “He will, He will.” “Well,” said Perrot, with a little laugh; “I think God will be good to a Frenchman when an Englishman is his foe.” “But the girl is English--and a heretic,” urged the abbe helplessly. Perrot laughed again. “That will make Him sorry for her.” Meanwhile Iberville had turned to the table, and was now reading a letter. A pleased look came on his face, and he nodded in satisfaction. At last he folded it up with a smile and sealed it. “Well,” he said, “the English is not good, for I have seen my Shakespeare little this time back, but it will do--it must do. In such things rhetoric is nothing. You will take it, Perrot?” he said, holding up the letter. Perrot reached out for it.