From the living-room there came to the Chevalier the murmur of voices, sometimes a laugh.  He was unaware of how much time passed.  He was conscious only of the voices, the occasional laugh, and the shining pieces of silver in his hand.  The perpendicular furrow above his nose grew deeper and deeper, the line of his lips grew thinner and thinner, and the muscles of his jaws became and remained hard and square.  Presently he shook his head as a lion shakes his when about to leap.  He righted the corporal’s chair and pushed his own under the table.  He had forgotten his hunger.  With the coin closed tightly in his fist, he started toward the door which gave into the living-room.  He stopped still when his foot touched the threshold, and leaned against the jamb, gloomily surveying the occupants of the room.  He saw Victor seated at his table, making corrections on the pages of what was to be his book of lore.  Father Chaumonot and Brother Jacques shared the table with the poet, and both were reading.  The gentlemen who had been forced either by poverty or the roving hand of adventure to take parts in this mission drama were gathered before the fire, discussing the days of prosperity and the court of Louis XIII.  A few feet from the poet’s table stood another, and round this sat Major du Puys, Nicot, and the vicomte, engaged in a friendly game of dominoes.  D’Herouville, Corporal Fremin, Jean Pauquet and a settler named The Fox, were not among the assemblage.

Victor saw his friend, nodded and smiled.  But the Chevalier did not return the smile.  Had Victor looked closer he would have seen the pall of impending tragedy on the Chevalier’s darkened brow.

“Ha!” said the vicomte, as he stirred the dominoes about; “there you are, Chevalier.  Come and take a hand.”  He smiled encouragingly.

The Chevalier went slowly toward the table, never taking his eyes from the vicomte’s face.  When he finally stood beside the vicomte’s stool, he stretched out his arm and opened his hand.

“Monsieur le Vicomte,” he said, “do you recognize these ten pieces of silver?”

Not a man among them all but felt the ice of a chill strike his spine at the sound of the Chevalier’s voice.  Every head in the room turned.

“Recognize?” The vicomte looked from the hand to the owner’s face upon which lay a purpose as calm and relentless as it was deadly.  “Recognize?  What do you mean, Monsieur?”

The Chevalier answered with a repellent laugh.  “Your economy does you credit; you have sold me to a drunken corporal for ten pieces of silver.”  With a swift movement he flung the silver into the vicomte’s upturned face.

The vicomte covered his face with his hands and sprang to his feet.  But no sound escaped him.  When he withdrew his hands his lips were bleeding and there were blue ridges on his cheeks and forehead.

Confusion.  Priests and soldiers and adventurers gathered quickly around.  Du Puys took the Chevalier by the shoulders and pressed him back from the table, while Brother Jacques threw his arms around the vicomte.  Only the Chevalier and the victim of his rage were apparently calm.