D'Hérouville rose, wondering. Victor ceased to inspect his hands, and the vicomte let the blade sink to his knees.
"You have laughed, Monsieur D'Hérouville; you have laughed at misfortune." The Chevalier still spoke quietly. Only Victor surmised the raging fire beneath those quiet tones.
"And will," retorted D'Hérouville, his eyes lighting with intelligence.
"At Quebec you held an unmanly threat above my head. Come with me; there is no woman here."
"Fight you? I believe we have settled that matter," insolently.
The Chevalier brought the back of his hand swiftly against D'Hérouville's mouth.
The laugh which sounded came from the vicomte. This would be interesting if no one interfered. But he was up almost as quickly as Victor, who rushed between the two men. D'Hérouville's sword was half free.
"Wherever you say!" he cried hoarsely.
"A moment, gentlemen!" said the vicomte, pointing toward the dancing circle.
A tall figure had stepped quietly into the dancing circle, raising his hands to command silence. It was the Black Kettle, son of Atotarho.