It was clear, however, that it was to
be a wrestle to the death. Iberville quelled all protests, and they
stepped back. There was a final call from the champion, and then he
became silent. From the Indians rose one long cry of satisfaction, and
then they too stilled, the chief fell back, and the two men stood alone
in the centre. Iberville, whose face had become grave, went to De Casson
and whispered to him. The abbe gave him his blessing, and then he turned
and went back. He waved his hand to his brothers and his friends,--a gay
Cavalier-like motion,--then took off all save his small clothes and stood
out.
Never was seen, perhaps, a stranger sight: a gentleman of France ranged
against a savage wrestler, without weapons, stripped to the waist, to
fight like a gladiator. But this was a new land, and Iberville could
ever do what another of his name or rank could not. There was only one
other man in Canada who could do the same--old Count Frontenac himself,
who, dressed in all his Court finery, had danced a war-dance in the
torch-light with Iroquois chiefs.
Stripped, Iberville's splendid proportions could be seen at advantage.
He was not massively made, but from crown to heel there was perfect
muscular proportion.
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