sword arm. Iberville was bleeding from the wound
in his side and slightly stiff from the slash of the night before, but
every fibre of his hurt body was on the defensive. Bucklaw knew it, and
seemed to debate if the game were worth the candle. The town was afoot,
and he had earned a halter for his pains. He was by no means certain
that he could kill this champion and carry off the girl. Moreover, he
did not want Iberville's life, for such devils have their likes and
dislikes, and he had fancied the chivalrous youngster from the first.
But he doubted only for an instant. What was such a lad's life compared
with his revenge? It was madness, as he knew, for a shot would guide the
pursuit: none the less, did he draw a pistol from his belt and fire.
The bullet grazed the lad's temple, carrying away a bit of his hair.
Iberville staggered forwards, so weak was he from loss of blood, and,
with a deep instinct of protection and preservation, fell at Jessica's
feet. There was a sound of footsteps and crackling of brush. Bucklaw
stooped to pick up his prey, but a man burst on him from the trees. He
saw that the game was up and he half raised his knife, but that was only
the mad rage of the instant. His revenge did not comprise so unheard-of
a crime. He thought he had killed Iberville: that was enough. He sprang
away towards the spot where his comrades awaited him. Escape was his
sole ambition now. The new-comer ran forwards, and saw the boy and girl
lying as they were dead. A swift glance at Iberville, and he slung his
musket shoulderwards and fired at the retreating figure. It was a chance
shot, for the light was bad and Bucklaw was already indistinct.

Now the man dropped on his knee and felt Iberville's heart. "Alive!"
he said. "Alive, thank the mother of God! Mon brave! It is ever the
same--the great father, the great son."

As he withdrew his hand it brushed against the slipper. He took it out,
glanced at it, and turned to the cloaked figure. He undid the cloak and
saw Jessica's pale face. He shook his head. "Always the same," he said,
"always the same: for a king, for a friend, for a woman! That is the Le
Moyne."

But he was busy as he spoke. With the native chivalry of the
woodsman, he cared first for the girl. Between her lips he thrust his
drinking-horn and held her head against his shoulder.

"My little ma'm'selle-ma'm'selle!" he said. "Wake up. It is nothing--you
are safe. Ah, the sweet lady! Come, let me see the co