"I beg, sir," he said to Iberville, "you will see there is no useless
slaughter at yon fort; for I guess that your men have their way with it."
"Shall my messenger, in your name, tell your people to give in?"
"By Heaven, no: I hope that they will fight while remains a chance. And
be sure, sir, I should not have yielded here, but that I foresaw hopeless
slaughter. Nor would I ask your favour there, but that I know you are
like to have bloody barbarians with you--and we have women and children!"
"We have no Indians, we are all French," answered Iberville quietly, and
sent the messenger away.
At that moment Perrot touched his arm, and pointed to a man whose
shoulder was being bandaged. It was Radisson, who had caught Iberville's
sword when the abbe diverted it.
"By the mass," said Iberville; "the gift of the saints!" He pricked
Radisson with the point of his sword. "Well, Monsieur Renegade, who holds
the spring of the trap now? You have some prayers, I hope. And if there
is no priest among your English, we'll find you one before you swing next
sundown."
Radisson threw up a malignant look, but said nothing; and went on caring
for his wound.
"At sunset, remember. You will see to it, Perrot," he added.
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