“You are wasting your breath.  What you have done can not be undone.”  The tones of his voice were all on a dull level, cold and unimpassioned.

Victor was struck with admiration at the sight of such extraordinary control; and he trembled to think of the whirlwind which would some day be let loose.

“I will kill De Leviston the first opportunity,” he said.

The Chevalier arose.  “No, lad; the man who told him.  He is mine!”

Victor sought out Brother Jacques for advice; but Brother Jacques’s advice was similar to the Chevalier’s and the governors.

So the day wore on into evening, and only then did the Chevalier venture forth.  He wandered aimlessly about the ramparts, alone, having declined Victor’s company, and avoiding all whom he saw.  He wanted to be alone, alone, forever alone.  Longingly he gazed toward the blackening forests.  Yonder was a haven.  Into those shadowy woods he might plunge and hide himself, built him a hut, and become lost to civilization, his name forgotten and his name forgetting.  O fool in wine that he had been!  To cut himself off from the joys and haunts of men in a moment of drunken insanity!  He had driven the marquis with taunts and gibes; he had shouted his ignoble birth across a table; and he expected, by coming to this wilderness, to lose the Nemesis he himself had set upon his heels!  What a fool!  What a fool!  He had cast out his heart for the rooks and the daws.  Wherever he might go, the world would go also, and the covert smile . . . and the covert smile . . .  God, how apart from all mankind he seemed this night.  But for Victor he would have sought the woods at once, facing the Iroquois fearlessly.  He must remain, to bow his head before the glances of the curious, the head that once was held so high; accept rebuffs without murmur, stand aside, step down, and follow.  If a man laughed at him, he must turn away:  his sword could no longer protect him.  How his lips thirsted for the wine-cup, for one mad night, and then . . . oblivion!  An outcast!  What would be his end?  O the long years!  For him there should be no wifely lips to kiss away the penciled lines of care; the happy voices of children would never make music in his ears.  He was alone, always and ever alone!

Presently the Chevalier bowed his head upon the cold iron of the cannon.  The crimson west grew fainter and fainter; and the evening breeze came up and stirred the Company’s flags on the warehouses far below.

Suddenly the Chevalier lifted his head.  He was still an officer and a gentleman.  He would stand taller, look into each eye and dare with his own.  It was not what he had been, nor what had been done to him; it was what he was, would be and do.  If every hand was to be against his, so be it.  D’Herouville?  Some day that laugh should cost him dear.  The vicomte?  What was his misfortune to the vicomte that he should pick a quarrel on his account?  Was he a gallant fellow like Victor?  He would learn.