“‘Tis Monsieur Gering!” said the priest.
“Stop! stop!” cried a voice behind these. “I am the governor. We surrender.”
There was nothing else to do: in spite of Gering’s show of defiance, though death was above him if he resisted. He was but half-way up.
“It is no use, Mr. Gering,” urged the governor; “they have us like sheep in a pen.”
“Very well,” said Gering suddenly, handing up his, sword and stepping up himself. “To whom do I surrender?”
“To an old acquaintance, monsieur,” said Iberville, coming near, “who will cherish you for the king of France.”
“Damnation!” cried Gering, and his eyes hungered for his sword again.
“You would not visit me, so I came to look for you; though why, monsieur, you should hide up here in the porch of the world passeth knowledge.”
“Monsieur is witty,” answered Gering stoutly; “but if he will grant me my sword again and an hour alone with him, I shall ask no greater joy in life.”
By this time the governor was on deck, and he interposed.