he 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 g