The two sat for a few moments gazing steadily at each other.  Alvarez was in the higher chair, and that gave him the physical advantage, but the look of the fearless youth was like the sharp sword that cuts scornfully through the maze and web of intrigue and trickery.  Alvarez was forced to turn his gaze aside, and his soul was full of tumult and anger because he had to yield.  The new plan that he had conceived in regard to this daring boy now seemed a peculiarly happy thought.  Henry’s pride and spirit must be broken, and he, Francisco Alvarez, was the man for the task.

He clapped his hands and a soldier entered.  He sent a message by him and several more came, accompanied by Braxton Wyatt.  Alvarez motioned Wyatt to a seat.

“Senor Wyatt,” he said in his slow, precise English, “I have been having a talk with your friend, your former friend here, and I find him to be as unworthy as you have described him to be.  I offered only kindness to himself and his friends.  I chose to believe that they had been merely foolish, misled by ignorance, but his reply has been only to insult me and to blacken you.”

The renegade did not seek to conceal the joy that shone in his eyes.  He had been in fear when he was sent out of the hall, in fear lest Alvarez had some plan by which he would suffer, and now it was obvious that nothing had been changed.

“It is his character,” said Wyatt.  “He is vicious and the truth has never been in him.”

Henry did not know what all this talk meant, but he refused to notice Braxton Wyatt.  His manner indicated that the renegade had ceased to exist, and it made Wyatt furious.

“You tell the truth,” continued Alvarez, “but he is dangerous, too, as you told me, a strong, wily fellow, and I shall not take any chances on his escape.  See, I am providing against it.”

A soldier entered, bearing balls and chain, and Alvarez pointed to Henry.  The youth sprang to his feet.  He knew that this was intended as an indignity, and his mind rebelled.

“Put them on him,” said Alvarez, and the soldiers approached.  Henry hurled the first back and then the second, but the others were about to fling themselves upon him in a heap, when a voice from the door cried: 

“Stop!”

It was not a loud voice, but one full of dignity and command, and the soldiers instantly fell back.

A tall man, robed in black, and with a thin face, smoothly shaven and austere, stood in the doorway.  The eyes, usually benevolent and kindly, sparkled with indignation, and one hand was uplifted in rebuke.

“Father Montigny!” said Henry, under his breath.

“Who says ‘stop!’ here, where I command?” Alvarez exclaimed, and then he paled at sight of the priest.  The Spaniard was a bold man, but he wished no conflict with Holy Church.

“I said ‘stop,’” replied the priest with calm dignity, advancing into the room.  “Francisco Alvarez, you were about to perform a deed unworthy of yourself, one that you would have cause to regret.  There is no war between Louisiana and Kaintock.  What right have you to put this youth in chains?”