“Yes, yes; forgive me,” she replied. She turned to Perrot again. “It is with you, then. You helped to save my life once—what right have you to destroy it now? You and Monsieur Iberville gave me the world when it were easy to have lost it; now when the world is everything to me because my husband lives in it, you would take his life and break mine.”
Suddenly a thought flashed into her mind. Her eyes brightened, her hand trembled towards Perrot, and touched him. “Once I gave you something, monsieur, which I had worn on my own bosom. That little gift—of a grateful girl, tell me, have you it still?”
Perrot drew from his doublet the medallion she had given him, and fingered it uncertainly.
“Then you value it,” she added. “You value my gift, and yet when my husband is a prisoner, to what perilous ends God only knows, you deny me to him. I will not plead; I ask as my right; I have come from Count Frontenac; he sent me to this good priest here. Were my husband in the citadel now I should be admitted. He is here with the man who, you know, once said he loved me. My husband is wickedly held a prisoner; I ask for entrance to him.”
Pleading, apprehension, seemed gone from her; she stood superior to her fear and sorrow. The priest reached a hand persuasively towards Perrot, and he was about to speak, but Perrot, coming close to the troubled wife, said: “The door is locked; they are there alone. I cannot let you in, but come with me. You have a voice—it may be heard. Come.”
Presently all three were admitted into the dim hallway.
CHAPTER XXIV
IN WHICH THE SWORD IS SHEATHED
How had it gone with Iberville and Gering?