D’Herouville, roused from his apathy, laughed.  “Eh, you laugh?” said the vicomte, wiping his bloody lips.  His eyes snapped wickedly.

“It is a habit I have,” retorted D’Herouville, glancing boldly at the Chevalier.

“Some day your habit will choke you to death.”

D’Herouville’s cheeks darkened.  He returned to the contemplation of his boots.

“Ten thousand livres!” The vicomte wiped his lips again, and became quiet.

This was one evening among many of its like.  The poet busied himself with taking some of the burs from his hair and absently plucking them to pieces. . . .  And Paul had had an intrigue with Gabrielle which had lasted nearly two years!  And madame was unknown to him!  What was her purpose?  Blind fool that he had been, with all his dreams.  Ever was he hearing the music of her voice, breathing the vague perfume of her flowering lips, seeing the heavenly shadows in her eyes.  Once he had come upon her while she slept.  Oh, happy thief, to have pressed his lips upon that cheek, blooming delicately as a Persian peach!  And that memory was all he had.  She did not love him!

The musing came to an abrupt end.  A moccasined foot shot out and struck Victor in the small of the back, sending him reeling toward the fire.  In trying to save himself he extended his hands.  He fell upon a glowing ember, and his palms were burned cruelly.  Cries of laughter resounded through the hut.  Victor bit his lips to repress the cry of pain.

With the agility of a panther, the Chevalier sprang toward the bully.  There was a terrible smile on his face as he seized the young brave’s wrists in a grip of iron.  The Oneida was a strong youth, but he wrestled in vain.  The Chevalier had always been gifted with strength, and these weeks of toil and hardship had turned his muscles into fibers unyielding as oak.  Gradually he turned the Indian around.  The others watched the engagement with breathless interest.  Presently the Indian came to his knees.  Quick as light the Chevalier forced him upon his face, caught an arm by the elbow and shoved the brown hand into the fire.  There was a howl of pain and a yell of laughter.  Without seeming effort the Chevalier then rolled the bully among the evil-tempered dogs.  So long as he continued to smile, the Indians saw nothing but good-natured play, such as had been the act which caused Victor his pain.  The Chevalier sat down, drew his tattered cloak around his shoulders, and once more resumed his study of the fire.

“Hoh!” grunted the fighting braves, who frankly admired this exhibition of strength.

“Curse it, why didn’t I think of that?” said the vicomte, his hand seeking his injured mouth again.

“God bless you for that, Paul,” murmured Victor, the sparkle of tears in his eyes.  “My hands do not hurt half so much now.”

“Would to God, lad, you had gone to Spain.  I am content to suffer alone; that is my lot; but it triples my sufferings to see you in pain.”