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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.
"How know you that?" "I have ears. You have promised to go with Phips. Isn't that so?" "What then?" "I will go with you." "Booty?" "No, revenge." "On whom?" "The man you hate Iberville." Gering's face darkens. "We are not likely to meet." "Pardon! very likely. Six months ago he was coming back from France. He will find you. I know the race." A sneer is on Gering's face.
They could see the man descend and gather the feather, then he plunged deeper still and they lost sight of him. But soon he came up rapidly, and was quickly inside the boat, to tell Gering that he had seen several great guns. At this the crew peered over the boat-side eagerly. Gering's heart beat hard.
Among these appeared Gering and the governor, who thrust themselves forward with drawn swords and pistols. The first two men who appeared above the hatchway were promptly despatched, and Iberville's sword was falling upon Gering, whom he did not recognise, when De Casson's hand diverted the blow. It caught the shoulder of a man at Gering's side. "'Tis Monsieur Gering!" said the priest.
In the first excitement of Gering's return, sorry for his sufferings and for his injured ambition, she had suddenly put her hands in his and had given her word to marry him.
Jessica had drawn from him the Puritanism which had made him self-conscious, envious, insular. A few days after this, Jessica, at her home in Boston, in the room where she had promised her father to be George Gering's wife, sat watching the sea. Its slow swinging music came up to her through the October air.
It was certain that he, while a prisoner at Quebec, had sent to Boston plans of the town, the condition of the defences, the stores, the general armament and the approaches, for the letter was intercepted. Gering's defence was straightforward. He held that he had sent the letter at a time when he was a prisoner simply, which was justifiable; not when a prisoner on parole, which was shameless.
There was no response, and he threw another, and again there was no response. Hearing the step of some one on the deck above he drew in close to the side of the ship, diving under the water and lying still. A moment after he reappeared and moved-almost floated- on to another port-hole. He had only one nail left; he threw it in, and Gering's face appeared. "Hush, monsieur!" Radisson called up.
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."
Jessica had drawn from him the Puritanism which had made him self- conscious, envious, insular. A few days after this, Jessica, at her home in Boston, in the room where she had promised her father to be George Gering's wife, sat watching the sea. Its slow swinging music came up to her through the October air.
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