D'Herouville was not at all embarrassed. Rather it added to
the zest of this strange predicament in which they were placed. It was
a tonic to his superb courage to think that one day or another he must
fight and kill these three men or be killed himself.
Occasionally the vicomte would stare at the Chevalier, long and
profoundly. Only Victor was aware of this peculiar scrutiny. It often
recalled to him that wild night at the Hotel de Perigny in Rochelle.
But the scrutiny was untranslatable.
No one spoke of madame; there was no need, as each knew instinctively
that she was always in the others' thoughts. The Chevalier no more
questioned the poet as to her identity. Was she living or dead, in
captivity or safe again in Quebec? Not one laid his head down at night
without these questions.
The monotonous beating of the drum went on. Harsh laughter rose; for
every night the Indians contrived to find new epithets with which to
revile the captives. So far there had been no hint of torture save the
gamut. The Chevalier, even with his inconsequent knowledge of the
tongue, caught the meaning of some of the words.
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