A woman was between us, and I knew no mercy.
My silence appeared to amuse him. He studied me and looked unhurried
and reflective. He stretched out a long, yellow arm in simulation of
contented weariness. "I wonder why you wish to keep the prisoner with
you longer," he marveled.
And then I laughed. I looked him full in the face and laughed again.
"But I have no prisoner. Unless, indeed, matrimony be a sort of
bondage. I travel with my wife, with Madame de Montlivet, nee
Starling, monsieur."
I knew that I had cut him in a vital part, but he held himself well.
An oath burst from him, but it did not move his great, immobile face
into betraying lines. Yet when he tried to speak his voice trailed off
in an unmeaning rattle. He tried twice, and his hands were
sweat-beaded. Then he heaved his great bulk upward and stood over me,
his baboon arms reaching for my throat.
"The marriage was honest? Speak."
I could respect that feeling. "Father Nouvel married us," I replied.
"We found him at the Pottawatamie Islands. I marvel that you did not
hear news of us from there, monsieur."
He sank back on the blanket. "I did not go there. I sprained my
ankle." He talked still with that curious rattling in his voice.
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