Suzanne's eyes glittered, this time. "He followed me all the way to l'Étang. He is mine."
Zabette brought out, through white lips, "Leave me alone. He was mine first."
"He was mine last," retaliated the other, undauntedly. "The very morning he went away, he came to see me. Did he come to you that day? Did he? Did he?"
Zabette ignored her question. "He wrote me a letter from St. Pierre Miquelon," she announced, crisply. "So that settles it, first and last."
The hand of Suzanne suddenly lifted to her bosom, as if feeling for something. "My letter was written at St. Pierre, too."
For an instant they glared at each other like wild animals fighting over prey. Neither said a word. Neither yielded a hair. Each felt that her life's happiness was at stake. Zabette had thought that this chit of a girl from l'Étang was mild and timid; but now she realized that she had met her match for courage. And the thought came to her: "When he sees us, let him choose."
She was not conscious of having uttered the words. Perhaps her glance, swiftly directed toward the Cape, conveyed the thought to her rival. At all events the answer came promptly and with complete self-assurance:
"Yes, let Maxence choose."
Just at that moment the first vessel appeared at the harbor entrance, while the bell redoubled its jubilation in the church tower on the hill.