"One more kiss, and we take the river, you and I. We will find some
outcast priest to ease your conscience. The kisses will not be so
fresh after that."
Far away came a call, but the vicomte did not hear it. He was too busy
feasting his eyes. He had forgotten.
"So be it," he said. "This kiss shall last a full breath. Then we
must be on the way."
A shadow darkened the doorway.
"Monsieur, here is a kiss for you, cold with death."
Madame cried out in joy. The vicomte whirled around, with an oath, his
sword in his hand. Victor, pale but serene and confident, stood
between him and freedom.
CHAPTER XXXII
THE ENVOI OF A GALLANT POET
Brother Jacques had done a wise thing. On the morning after the
vicomte's singular confession, he had spoken a few words to the Black
Kettle. From that hour the vicomte made no move that was not under the
vigilant eye of the Onondaga. Wherever he went the Black Kettle
followed with the soundless cunning of his race. Thus he had warned
the settlement of what was going on at the hunting hut. Victor, having
met him on his way up the trail, was first to arrive upon the scene.
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