“I will not surrender!” he answered curtly. “If there be a gentleman among you who can use a sword, I am willing to fight him. If not, I will see how many more of this rabble I can take with me.” And he jerked his head toward the two whom he had shot down.
“I will cross swords with you,” I cried, getting ahead of Marc, “and will count myself much honoured in meeting so brave a gentleman. But you English took my sword from me, and up to the present have neglected to give it back.”
“I have swords, of course, monsieur,” he replied, his face lighting with satisfaction as he stepped back into his cabin to get them.
But some one else was not satisfied. Yvonne’s hands were on my arm—her eyes, wide with terror, imploring mine. “Don’t! It will kill me, dear! Oh, what madness! Have you no pity for me!” she gasped.
I looked at her reassuringly, not liking to say there was no danger, lest I should seem to boast; and so instant was her reading of my thought that even as I looked the fear died out of her face.
“It is nothing, dear heart. Ask Marc,” I whispered. She turned to him with the question in her eyes.
“Paul is the best sword in New France,” said Marc quietly, “not even excepting my father, the Sieur de Briart.”
Now so quickly was the confidence of my own heart transferred into the heart of my beloved that she was no more afraid. Indeed, what she said was:
“You must not hurt him, Paul! He has been very nice to me!” and this in a voice so clear that Shafto himself heard it as he came out with the swords. It ruffled him, but he bowed low to her in acknowledgment of her interest.
“They are of the same length. Choose, monsieur!” said he, holding them out to me.