eck a gasp, but both the priest and the woodsman saw how
intrepid was the struggle in her, and they both pitied.

"Now I understand! Oh, now I understand!" she cried. "A plot was laid.
He was let escape that he might be cornered here--one single man against
a whole country. Oh, cowards, cowards!"

"Pardon me, madame," said Perrot, bristling up, "not cowards. Your
husband has a chance for his life. You know Monsieur Iberville--he is
a man all honour. More than once he might have had your husband's life,
but he gave it to him."

Her foot tapped the ground impatiently, her hands clasped before her.
"Go on, oh, go on!" she said. "What is it? why is he here? Have you no
pity, no heart?" She turned towards the priest. "You are a man of God.
You said once that you would help me make peace between my husband and
Monsieur Iberville, but you join here with his enemies."

"Madame, believe me, you are wrong. I have done all I could: I have
brought you here."

"Yes, yes; forgive me," she replied. She turned to Perrot again. "It is
with you, then. You helped to save my life once--what right have you
to destroy it now? You and Monsieur Iberville gave me the world when
it were easy to have lost it; now when the world is everything to me
because my husband lives in it, you would take his life and break mine."

Suddenly a thought flashed into her mind. Her eyes brightened, her hand
trembled towards Perrot, and touched him. "Once I gave you something,
monsieur, which I had worn on my own bosom. That little gift--of a
grateful girl, tell me, have you it still?"

Perrot drew from his doublet the medallion she had given him, and
fingered it uncertainly.

"Then you value it," she added. "You value my gift, and yet when my
husband is a prisoner, to what perilous ends God only knows, you deny
me to him. I will not plead; I ask as my right; I have come from Count
Frontenac; he sent me to this good priest here. Were my husband in the
citadel now I should be admitted. He is here with the man who, you know,
once said he loved me. My husband is wickedly held a prisoner; I ask for
entrance to him."

Pleading, apprehension, seemed gone from her; she stood superior to her
fear and sorrow. The priest reached a hand persuasively towards Perrot,
and he was about to speak, but Perrot, coming close to the troubled
wife, said: "The door is locked; they are there alone. I cannot let you
in, but come with me. You have a voice--it may be heard. Come."