“Rise, Monsieur,” he said.  His voice was even.

D’Herouville rose, wondering.  Victor ceased to inspect his hands, and the vicomte let the blade sink to his knees.

“You have laughed, Monsieur D’Herouville; you have laughed at misfortune.”  The Chevalier still spoke quietly.  Only Victor surmised the raging fire beneath those quiet tones.

“And will,” retorted D’Herouville, his eyes lighting with intelligence.

“At Quebec you held an unmanly threat above my head.  Come with me; there is no woman here.”

“Fight you?  I believe we have settled that matter,” insolently.

The Chevalier brought the back of his hand swiftly against D’Herouville’s mouth.

The laugh which sounded came from the vicomte.  This would be interesting if no one interfered.  But he was up almost as quickly as Victor, who rushed between the two men.  D’Herouville’s sword was half free.

“Wherever you say!” he cried hoarsely.

“A moment, gentlemen!” said the vicomte, pointing toward the dancing circle.

A tall figure had stepped quietly into the dancing circle, raising his hands to command silence.  It was the Black Kettle, son of Atotarho.

“Two stranger canoes are coming up the river.  Let us go to meet them,” said the Black Kettle.  “Either they are friends, or they are enemies.”

“Let us wait and see what this is,” and the vicomte touched the Chevalier on the arm.

“Curse you all!” cried D’Herouville passionately.  “Liar!” He turned upon Victor.  “But for your lying tongue, I should not be here.”

“After Monsieur le Chevalier,” said the poet, forgetting that he could not hold a sword.

“Rather say after me, Saumaise;” and the vicomte smiled significantly.

“All of you, together or one at a time!” D’Herouville was mad with rage.

“One at a time,” replied the banterer; “the Chevalier first, and if he leaves anything worth fighting, I; as for you, my poet, your chances are nil.”

Meanwhile a dozen canoes had been launched.  A quarter of an hour passed anxiously; and then the canoes returned, augmented by two more.  Father Chaumonot hailed.  An answering hail came back.

“Father Chaumonot?”

“Who calls me by name?” asked the Jesuit.

“Brother Jacques!”

Brother Jacques!  The human mind moves quickly from one thing to another.  For the time being all antagonism was gone; a single thought bound the four men together again.

“Are you alone?” asked Chaumonot.  His voice quavered in spite of his effort.

“No!” sang out Brother Jacques’s barytone; and there was a joyous note in it.  “Two daughters of Onontio are captives with me.”

Two daughters of Onontio; two women from the Chateau St. Louis!  A rare wine seemed to infuse the Chevalier’s blood.  He forgot many things in that moment.