“Why not?” he asked in return, suspending operations, and glancing up at me in surprise.  “She referred to herself as the ’Daughter of the Sun,’ once saying that her ancestors ruled over this people for a thousand years.”

“She told you that?”

“At least so the black interpreted her words.  Why question it?”

“Doubtless to your thought there exists small cause for questioning the word of so fair a woman,” I acknowledged dryly.  “Yet to my vision, not wholly blinded by her charms, she possesses more of the Caucasian in face and manner than any other of the race.  If she is not of European birth I am a poor judge, Monsieur, and ’t is my belief, if she told you she was not, the woman lied.”

I was scarcely prepared for the result of my words upon him; his face flushed, a sudden glow of anger sweeping into his eyes.

“You are, indeed, of bold heart,” he exclaimed scornfully, “to malign a woman in her absence.”

“There are women no words can malign,” I retorted sharply, stung by his tone, “I opine this Queen of savages belongs to that class.  To my mind it would be better were you to wax indignant over the wrongs of your wife rather than over a just picturing of this harlot.”

Before I could move to draw aside, he was upon his feet, and I felt the stinging blow of his hand across my lips.

“Sacre!” he cried, transported by sudden rage, “Charles de Noyan takes such affront from no man.  I denounce you as a cowardly vilifier of an absent woman.”

I know not why I failed to strike the fellow down.  My hand was hard on the knife hilt within my doublet, yet I drew it not as we stood there eye to eye.  There was that between us—­the dim, shadowy face of a woman—­which held me as by a chain.  It seemed to me then as if my knife point would have to pass through her before it touched his heart, and, feeling thus, God gave me power to choke back the hot resentment, and restrain my hand.

“Monsieur,” I said sternly, “never has the hand of man touched me before in anger without my making full return for the blow.  Yet now I strike you not.  The time may come when I shall wipe out this insult, but here and now you stand safe from my arm.”

“Safe!” he sneered. “Parbleu! you are a cowardly hound to talk thus.  Safe! think you I have anything to fear at your hands?”

“I bid you restrain your tongue, Chevalier,” I said, my voice unsteady.  “God being my witness, never before did you stand so close to death as now.  Look,” and I held up the keen blade before his eyes.  “This steel thirsts for your blood; only one thought has intervened to save you.”

“What was that?”

“The fact that you are the husband of one who was once Eloise Lafreniere.”

I know not how much of the truth he suspected, but for a moment we stood thus, I half imagining he contemplated a leap at my throat.  Then his eyes fell, and he drew back with a short laugh.