The vicomte sprang forward just as madame was groping for the knife.  He put his foot on it, laughing.

“Not at present, Madame; later, if you are inclined that way.  That was well done, Corporal.”

The vicomte bound the Chevalier’s hands and ankles securely and took the dripping hat from Pauquet, dashing the contents into the Chevalier’s face.

“Help me set him up against the wall.”

The Chevalier shuddered, and by and by opened his eyes.  The world came back to him.  He looked at his enemies calmly.

“Well?” he said.  He would waste no breath asking for mercy.  There was no mercy here.

“You shall be left where you are, Monsieur,” replied the vicomte, “while I hold converse with madame inside.  You are where you can hear but not see.  Corporal, take the men to the canoe and wait for me.  Warn me if there is any danger.  I shall be along presently.  Chevalier, I compliment you upon your fight.  I know but a dozen men in all France who are your match.”

“What are you going to do?” The Chevalier felt his heart swell with agony.

“What am I going to do?  Listen.  You shall hear even if you can not see.”  The vicomte entered the hut.

Madame was standing in a corner. . . .  The Chevalier lived.  If she could but hold the vicomte at arm’s length for a space!

“Well, Madame, have you no friendly welcome for one who loves you fondly?  I offered to make you my wife; but now!  What was it that Monsieur Shakspere says? . . .  ’Sit you down, sweet, till I wring your heart’?  Was that it?”

All her courage returned at the sound of his voice.  Her tongue spoke not, but the hate in her eyes was a language he read well enough.

“Mine! . . .  For a day, or a week, or for life!  Has it not occurred to you, sweet?  You are mine.  Here we are, alone together, you and I; and I am a man in all things, and you are a beautiful woman.”  His glance, critical and admiring, ran over her face and form.  “You would look better in silks.  Well, you shall have them.  You stood at the door of a convent; why did you not enter?  You love the world too well; eh? . . .  Like your mother.”

Her eyes were steady.

“In my father’s orchards there used to be a peach-tree.  It had the whimsical habit of bearing one large peach each season.  When it ripened I used to stand under it and gloat over it for hours, to fill my senses with its perfect beauty.  At length I plucked it.  I never regretted the waiting; the fruit tasted only the sweeter. . . .  You are like that peach, Madame.  By the Cross, over which these Jesuits mumble, but you are worth a dance with death!”

“Had you a mother, Monsieur?”

This unexpected question made him widen his eyes.  “Truly, else I had not been here.”

“Did she die in peace?”

He frowned.  “It matters not how she died.”  He sat on the edge of the table and swung one leg to and fro.  “Some men would give their chance of heaven for a taste of those lips.”