"A fool's lie," retorted Gering, in a low, angry voice, and spilled his
wine.

At that Iberville's heart thumped in his throat with anger, and the roof
of his mouth became dry; never in his life had he been called a liar.
The first time that insult strikes a youth of spirit he goes a little
mad.

But he was very quiet--an ominous sort of quietness, even in a boy. He
got to his feet and leaned over the table, speaking in words that dropped
on the silence like metal: "Monsieur, there is but one answer."

At this point Morris, roused from his elaborate musings, caught, not very
clearly, at the meaning of it all. But he had not time to see more, for
just then he was called by the governor, and passed into the room where
Mammon, for the moment, perched like a leering, little dwarf upon the
shoulders of adventurous gentlemen grown avaricious on a sudden.

"Monsieur, there is but one way. Well?" repeated Iberville.

"I am ready," replied Gering, also getting to his feet. The Frenchman
was at once alive to certain difficulties. He knew that an envoy should
not fight, and that he could ask no one to stand his second; also that it
would not be possible to arrange a formal duel between opposites so young
as Gering and himself. He sketched this briefly, and the Bostonian
nodded moody assent. "Come, then," said Iberville, "let us find a place.
My sword is at my hand. Yours?"

"Mine is not far off," answered Gering sullenly. Iberville forbore to