IN WHICH THE SWORD IS SHEATHED
How had it gone with Iberville and Gering?
The room was large, scantily, though comfortably, furnished. For a
moment after they took up their swords they eyed each other calmly.
Iberville presently smiled: he was recalling that night, years ago, when
by the light of the old Dutch lantern they had fallen upon each other,
swordsmen, even in those days, of more than usual merit. They had
practised greatly since. Iberville was the taller of the two, Gering the
stouter. Iberville’s eye was slow, calculating, penetrating; Gering’s
was swift, strangely vigilant. Iberville’s hand was large, compact, and
supple; Gering’s small and firm.
They drew and fell on guard. Each at first played warily. They were keen
to know how much of skill was likely to enter into this duel, for each
meant that it should be deadly. In the true swordsman there is found
that curious sixth sense, which is a combination of touch, sight,
apprehension, divination. They had scarcely made half a dozen passes
before each knew that he was pitted against a master of the art--an art
partly lost in an age which better loves the talk of swords than the
handling of them. But the advantage was with Iberville, not merely
because of more practice,--Gering made up for that by a fine certainty
of nerve,--but because he had a prescient quality of mind, joined to the
calculation of the perfect gamester.
From the first Iberville played a waiting game. He knew Gering’s
impulsive nature, and he wished to draw him on, to irritate him, as
only one swordsman can irritate another. Gering suddenly led off with a
disengage from the carte line into tierce, and, as he expected, met the
short parry and riposte. Gering tried by many means to draw Iberville’s
attack, and, failing to do so, played more rapidly than he ought, which
was what Iberville wished.
Presently Iberville’s chance came. In the carelessness of annoyance,
Gering left part of his sword arm uncovered, while he was meditating a
complex attack, and he paid the penalty by getting a sharp prick from
Iberville’s sword-point. The warning came to Gering in time. When they
crossed swords again, Iberville, whether by chance or by momentary want
of skill, parried Gering’s disengage from tierce to carte on to his own
left shoulder.
Both had now got a taste of blood, and there is nothing like that to
put the lust of combat into a man. For a moment or two the fight went
on with no special feat, but so hearty became the action that Iberville,
seeing Gering flag a little,--due somewhat to loss of blood, suddenly
opened such a rapid attack on the advance that it was all Gering could
do to parry, without thought of riposte, the successive lunges of the
swift blade. As he retreated, Gering felt, as he broke ground, that
he was nearing the wall, and, even as he parried, incautiously threw a
half-glance over his shoulder to see how near. Iberville saw his chance,
his finger was shaping a fatal lunge, when there suddenly came from the
hallway a woman’s voice. So weird was it that both swordsmen drew back,
and once more Gering’s life was waiting in the hazard.
Strange to say, Iberville recognised the voice first. He was angered
with himself now that he had paused upon the lunge and saved Gering.
Suddenly there rioted in him the disappointed vengeance of years. He had
lost her once by sparing this man’s life. Should he lose her again? His
sword flashed upward.
At that moment Gering recognised his wife’s voice, and he turned pale.
“My wife!” he exclaimed.
They closed again. Gering was now as cold as he had before been ardent,
and he played with malicious strength and persistency. His nerves seemed
of iron. But there had come to Iberville the sardonic joy of one who
plays for the final hazard, knowing that he shall win. There was one
great move he had reserved for the last. With the woman’s voice at the
door beseeching, her fingers trembling upon the panel, they could not
prolong the fight. Therefore, at the moment when Gering was pressing
Iberville hard, the Frenchman suddenly, with a trick of the Italian
school, threw his left leg en arriere and made a lunge, which ordinarily
would have spitted his enemy, but at the critical moment one word
came ringing clearly through the locked door. It was his own name, not
Iberville, but--“Pierre! Pierre!”
He had never heard the voice speak that name. It put out his judgment,
and instead of his sword passing through Gering’s body it only grazed
his ribs.
Perhaps there was in him some ancient touch of superstition, some sense
of fatalism, which now made him rise to his feet and throw his sword
upon the table.
“Monsieur,” he said cynically, “again we are unfortunate.”
Then he went to the door, unlocked it, and threw it open upon Jessica.
She came in upon them trembling, pale, yet glowing with her anxiety.
Instantly Iberville was all courtesy. One could not have guessed that he
had just been engaged in a deadly conflict. As his wife entered, Gering
put his sword aside. Iberville closed the door, and the three stood
looking at each other for a moment. Jessica did not throw herself into
her husband’s arms. The position was too painful, too tragic, for even
the great emotion in her heart. Behind Iberville’s courtesy she read the
deadly mischief. But she had a power born for imminent circumstances,
and her mind was made up as to her course. It had been made up when, at
the critical moment, she had called out Iberville’s Christian name. She
rightly judged that this had saved her husband’s life, for she guessed
that Iberville was the better swordsman.
She placed her hands with slight resistance on the arms of her husband,
who was about to clasp her to his breast, and said: “I am glad to find
you, George.” That was all.
He also had heard that cry, “Pierre,” and he felt shamed that his
life was spared because of it--he knew well why the sword had not gone
through his body. She felt less humiliation, because, as it seemed to
her, she had a right to ask of Iberville what no other woman could ask
for her husband.
A moment after, at Iberville’s request, they were all seated. Iberville
had pretended not to notice the fingers which had fluttered towards him.
As yet nothing had been said about the duel, as if by tacit consent. So
far as Jessica was concerned it might never have happened. As for the
men, the swords were there, wet with the blood they had drawn, but they
made no sign. Iberville put meat and wine and fruit upon the table,
and pressed Jessica to take refreshment. She responded, for it was in
keeping with her purpose. Presently Iberville said, as he poured a
glass of wine for her: “Had you been expected, madame, there were better
entertainment.”
“Your entertainment, monsieur,” she replied, “has two sides,”--she
glanced at the swords,--“and this is the better.”
“If it pleases you, madame.”
“I dare not say,” she returned, “that my coming was either pleasant or
expected.”
He raised his glass towards her: “Madame, I am proud to pledge you once
more. I recall the first time that we met.”
Her reply was instant. “You came, an ambassador of peace to the governor
of New York. Monsieur, I come an ambassador of peace to you.”
“Yes, I remember. You asked me then what was the greatest, bravest thing
I ever did. You ever had a buoyant spirit, madame.”
“Monsieur,” she rejoined, with feeling, “will you let me answer that
question for you now? The bravest and greatest thing you ever did was to
give a woman back her happiness.”
“Have I done so?”
“In your heart, yes, I believe. A little while ago my husband’s life and
freedom were in your hands--you will place them in mine now, will you
not?”
Iberville did not reply directly. He twisted his wineglass round, sipped
from it pleasantly, and said: “Pardon me, madame, how were you admitted
here?”
She told him.
“Singular, singular!” he replied; “I never knew Perrot fail me before.
But you have eloquence, madame, and he knew, no doubt, that you would
always be welcome to my home.”
There was that in his voice which sent the blood stinging through
Gering’s veins. He half came to his feet, but his wife’s warning,
pleading glance brought him to his chair again.
“Monsieur, tell me,” she said, “will you give my husband his freedom?”
“Madame, his life is the State’s.”
“But he is in your hands now. Will you not set him free? You know that
the charge against him is false--false. He is no spy. Oh, monsieur,
you and he have been enemies, but you know that he could not do a
dishonourable thing.”
“Madame, my charges against him are true.”
“I know what they are,” she said earnestly, “but this strife is not
worthy of you, and it is shaming me. Monsieur, you know I speak truly.
“You called me Pierre a little while ago,” he said; “will you not now?”
His voice was deliberate, every word hanging in its utterance. He had
a courteous smile, an apparent abandon of manner, but there was devilry
behind all, for here, for the first time, he saw this woman, fought for
and lost, in his presence with her husband, begging that husband’s life
of him. Why had she called him Pierre? Was it because she knew it would
touch a tender corner of his heart? Should that be so--well, he would
wait.
“Will you listen to me?” she asked, in a low gentle voice.
“I love to hear you speak,” was his reply, and he looked into her eyes
as he had boldly looked years before, but his gaze made hers drop. There
was revealed to her all that was in his mind.
“Then, hear me now,” she said slowly. “There was a motherless young
girl. She had as fresh and cheerful a heart as any in the world. She had
not many playmates, but there was one young lad who shared her sports
and pleasant hours, who was her good friend. Years passed; she was
nearing womanhood, the young man was still her friend, but in his mind
there had come something deeper. A young stranger also came, handsome,
brave, and brilliant. He was such a man as any girl could like and any
man admire. The girl liked him, and she admired him. The two young men
quarreled; they fought; and the girl parted them. Again they would have
fought, but this time the girl’s ‘life was in danger. The stranger was
wounded in saving her. She owed him a debt--such a debt as only a woman
can feel; because a woman loves a noble deed more than she loves her
life--a good woman.”
She paused, and for an instant something shook in her throat. Her
husband looked at her with a deep wonder. And although Iberville’s eyes
played with his glass of wine, they were fascinated by her face, and his
ear was strangely charmed by her voice.
“Will you go on?” he said.
“The three parted. The girl never forgot the stranger. What might have
happened if he had always been near her, who can tell--who can
tell? Again in later years the two men met, the stranger the
aggressor--without due cause.”
“Pardon me, madame, the deepest cause,” said Iberville meaningly.
She pretended not to understand, and continued: “The girl, believing
that what she was expected to do would be best for her, promised her
hand in marriage. At this time the stranger came. She saw him but for a
day, for an hour, then he passed away. Time went on again, and the two
men met in battle--men now, not boys; once more the stranger was the
victor. She married the defeated man. Perhaps she did not love him as
much as he loved her, but she knew that the other love, the love of the
stranger, was impossible--impossible. She came to care for her
husband more and more--she came to love him. She might have loved the
stranger--who can tell? But a woman’s heart cannot be seized as a ship
or a town. Believe me, monsieur, I speak the truth. Years again passed:
her husband’s life was in the stranger’s hand. Through great danger she
travelled to plead for her husband’s life. Monsieur, she does not plead
for an unworthy cause. She pleads for justice, in the name of honourable
warfare, for the sake of all good manhood. Will--will you refuse her?”
She paused. Gering’s eyes were glistening. Her honesty, fine eloquence,
and simple sincerity, showed her to him in a new, strong light. Upon
Iberville, the greater of the two, it had a greater effect. He sat still
for a moment, looking at the woman with the profound gaze of one moved
to the soul. Then he got to his feet slowly, opened the door, and
quietly calling Perrot, whispered to him. Perrot threw up his hands in
surprise, and hurried away.
Then Iberville shut the door, and came back. Neither man had made any
show of caring for their wounds. Still silent, Iberville drew forth
linen and laid it upon the table. Then he went to the window, and as
he looked through the parted curtains out upon the water--the room hung
over the edge of the cliff-he bound his own shoulder. Gering had lost
blood, but weak as he was he carried himself well. For full half an hour
Iberville stood motionless while the wife bound her husband’s wounds.
At length the door opened and Perrot entered. Iberville did not hear
him at first, and Perrot came over to him. “All is ready, monsieur,” he
said.
Iberville, nodding, came to the table where stood the husband and
wife, and Perrot left the room. He picked up a sword and laid it beside
Gering, then waved his hand towards the door.
“You are free to go, monsieur,” he said. “You will have escort to your
country. Go now--pray, go quickly.”
He feared he might suddenly repent of his action, and going to the door,
he held it open for them to pass. Gering picked up the sword, found
the belt and sheath, and stepped to the doorway with his wife. Here he
paused as if he would speak to Iberville: he was ready now for final
peace. But Iberville’s eyes looked resolutely away, and Gering sighed
and passed into the hallway. Now the wife stood beside Iberville.
She looked at him steadily, but at first he would not meet her eye.
Presently, however, he did so.
“Good-bye,” she said brokenly, “I shall always remember--always.”
His reply was bitter. “Good-bye, madame: I shall forget.”
She made a sad little gesture and passed on, but presently turned, as if
she could not bear that kind of parting, and stretched out her hands to
him.
“Monsieur--Pierre!” she cried, in a weak, choking voice.
With hot frank impulse he caught both her hands in his and kissed them.
“I shall--remember,” he said, with great gentleness.
Then they passed from the hallway, and he was alone. He stood looking
at the closed door, but after a moment went to the table, sat down, and
threw his head forward in his arms.
An hour afterwards, when Count Frontenac entered upon him, he was still
in the same position. Frontenac touched him on the arm, and he rose. The
governor did not speak, but caught him by the shoulders with both hands,
and held him so for a moment, looking kindly at him. Iberville picked up
his sword from the table and said calmly:
“Once, sir, you made it a choice between the woman and the sword.”
Then he raised the sword and solemnly pressed his lips against the
hilt-cross.
ETEXT EDITOR’S BOOKMARKS:
Aboriginal in all of us, who must have a sign for an emotion
Learned, as we all must learn, that we live our dark hour alone
Love, too, is a game, and needs playing
Often called an invention of the devil (Violin)
To die without whining
End of Project Gutenberg’s The Trail of the Sword, Complete, by Gilbert Parker