then, in French, the very wording of the inarticulate cry that had come
to me out of the darkness and silence: "_A moi! pour l'amour de Dieu!_"

We fell apart, each to his own side of the handful of embers.

"You make it out?" said I, after a moment of strained silence.

He nodded. "She has prattled the parlez-vous to me ever since we were
boy and maid together."

A full minute more of the threatening silence, and at the end of it we
were glaring at each other like two wild creatures crouching for the
spring.

It was Jennifer who spoke first. "'Twas meant for me," he said; and his
voice had the warning of a mastiff's growl in it.

"No!" said I, curtly.

"I say it was!"

"Then you say the thing which is not."

Had I been Richard Jennifer, I know not what bitter reproach I should
have found to hurl at the man who had thrice owed his life to me. But he
said no word of what had gone before.

"You may give me the lie, if you like, John Ireton; I shall not strike
you." He said it slowly, but his face was gray with anger. Then he
added, hotly: "You know well that word was meant for me!"