Perrot whispered to him, and now he turned and look at Gering with a malignant steadiness.
“You have had the great honour, sir,” he said, “to kill one of the bravest gentlemen of France. More than once to-day myself and my friend here”—pointing to Perrot “could have killed you. Why did we not? Think you, that you might kill my brother, whose shoe-latchet were too high for you? Monsieur, the sum mounts up.” His voice was full of bitterness and hatred. “Why did we spare you?” he repeated, and paused.
Gering could understand Iberville’s quiet, vicious anger. He would rather have lost a hand than have killed Sainte-Helene, who had, on board the Maid of Provence, treated him with great courtesy. He only shook his head now.
“Well, I will tell you,” said Iberville. “We have spared you to try you for a spy. And after—after! His laugh was not pleasant to hear.
“A spy? It is false!” cried Gering.
“You will remember—monsieur, that once before you gave me the lie!”
Gering made a proud gesture of defiance, but answered nothing. That night he was lodged in the citadel.