“Booty?”
“No, revenge.”
“On whom?”
“The man you hate—Iberville.”
Gering’s face darkens. “We are not likely to meet.”
“Pardon! very likely. Six months ago he was coming back from France. He will find you. I know the race.”
A sneer is on Gering’s face. “Freebooters, outlaws like yourself!”
“Pardon! gentlemen, monsieur; noble outlaws. What is it that once or twice they have quarreled with the governor, and because they would not yield have been proclaimed? Nothing. Proclaimed yesterday, today at Court. No, no. I hate Iberville, but he is a great man.”
In the veins of the renegade is still latent the pride of race. He is a villain but he knows the height from which he fell. “He will find you, monsieur,” he repeats. “When Le Moyne is the hunter he never will kennel till the end. Besides, there is the lady!”
“Silence!”