"Monsieur, here is a kiss for you, cold with death."
Madame cried out in joy. The vicomte whirled around, with an oath, his sword in his hand. Victor, pale but serene and confident, stood between him and freedom.
CHAPTER XXXII
THE ENVOI OF A GALLANT POET
Brother Jacques had done a wise thing. On the morning after the vicomte's singular confession, he had spoken a few words to the Black Kettle. From that hour the vicomte made no move that was not under the vigilant eye of the Onondaga. Wherever he went the Black Kettle followed with the soundless cunning of his race. Thus he had warned the settlement of what was going on at the hunting hut. Victor, having met him on his way up the trail, was first to arrive upon the scene.
"The poet!" said the vicomte airily. He was, with all his lawlessness, a gallant man. "Did I not prophesy that some day we should be at each other's throats?"
"Gabrielle," Victor said, "help is close at hand. I can keep this man at bay. If I should die, Gabrielle … you will not forget me?"
"How affecting! I am almost moved to tears!" mocked the vicomte.
"Well, Monsieur, let us go about our work without banter. There is no edict here, no meddling priests, only you and I. Engage!" Bare-headed he stood, scarce but a youth, no match ordinarily for the seasoned swordsman before him. But madame saw the courage of Bayard in his frank blue eyes. She turned her face toward the wall and wept. "Have patience, Paul," Victor called; "they will liberate you soon."