Devil that he was, Black Ferguson began to test her nerve, prancing on the rounds upward, ever upward, showing his waist, his hips, knees, even ankles, while Father Brochet trembled for the sake of the girl. He expected every instant to hear the thunderous reverberation that would carry destruction and death. Once the Nor'west leader rose on the last rung till his boot-tops levelled the floor, balanced thus, grinning to see how little he had to spare.
The priest noted Desirée's hand whitening on the pistol butt, noted the weapon's muzzle thrusting deeper into the powder. Involuntarily his fingertips went to his ears. But the explosion did not come. Laughing a grim, satisfied laugh, Black Ferguson dropped down a rung or so alongside Brochet.
"You should not do that," the latter reproved. "A slip of your foot or a nervous quiver of the girl's hand and we would all be in Heaven!"
"You and the girl might, Father. I would be in a fitter place."
Ferguson's face was insolent. He had no fear, neither had he any reverence.
"Hard as you are," the priest went on, "I give you credit for your courage."
"Give Desirée credit too! There is a woman of steel, Father. A fit mate for a Nor'wester!"
"But most unwilling, it seems!"
"Her will must break."
Black Ferguson turned again to glimpse her fully. He played again his trick of mounting the ladder rungs.