"Then let me speak of that which was unfortunate. Once you called me a fool and a liar. We fought and were interrupted. We met again, with the same ending, and I was wounded by the man Bucklaw. Before the wound was healed I had to leave for Quebec. Years passed, you know well how. We met in the Spaniards' country, where you killed my servant; and again at Fort Rupert, you remember. At the fort you surrendered before we had a chance to fight. Again, we were on the hunt for treasure. You got it; and almost in your own harbour I found you, and fought you and a greater ship with you, and ran you down. As your ship sank you sprang from it to my own ship--a splendid leap. Then you were my guest, and we could not fight; all--all unfortunate." He paused. Gering was cool; he saw Iberville's purpose, and he was ready to respond to it. "And then?" asked Gering. "Your charge is long--is it finished?" A hard light came into Iberville's eyes. "And then, monsieur, you did me the honour to come to my own country. We did not meet in the fighting, and you killed my brother." Iberville crossed himself. "Then"--his voice was hard and bitter--"you were captured; no longer a prisoner of war, but one who had broken his parole. You were thrown into prison, were tried and condemned to death. There remained two things: that you should be left to hang, or an escape--that we should meet here and now." "You chose the better way, monsieur." "I treat you with consideration, I hope, monsieur." Gering waved his hand in acknowledgment, and said: "What weapons do you choose?" Iberville quietly laid on the table a number of swords. "If I should survive this duel, monsieur," questioned Gering, "shall I be free?" "Monsieur, escape will be unnecessary." "Before we engage, let me say that I regret your brother's death." "Monsieur, I hope to deepen that regret," answered Iberville quietly. Then they took up their swords. CHAPTER XXIII AT THE GATES OF MISFORTUNE Meanwhile the abbe and Jessica were making their way swiftly towards the manor-house. They scarcely spoke as they went, but in Jessica's mind was a vague horror. Lights sparkled on the crescent shore of Beauport, and the torches of fishermen flared upon the St. Charles. She looked back once towards the heights of Quebec and saw the fires of many homes--they scorched her eyes. She asked no questions. The priest beside her was silent, not looking at her at all. At last he turned and said: "Madame, whatever has happened, whatever may happen, I trust you will be brave." "Monsieur l'Abbe" she answered, "I have travelled from Boston here--can you doubt it?" The priest sighed. "May the hope that gave you strength remain, madame!" A little longer and then they stood within a garden thick with plants and trees. As they passed through it, Jessica was vaguely aware of the rich fragrance of fallen leaves and the sound of waves washing the foot of the cliffs.