"You seem to have me at your mercy. What are your terms?"
Father Beret hesitated. It was a question difficult to answer.
"Give me your word as a British officer that you will never again
try to harm any person, not an open, armed enemy, in this town."
Hamilton's gorge rose perversely. He erected himself with lofty
reserve and folded his arms. The dignity of a Lieutenant Governor
leaped into him and took control. Father Beret correctly
interpreted what he saw.
"My people have borne much," he said, "and the killing of that
poor child there will be awfully avenged if I but say the word.
Besides, I can turn every Indian in this wilderness against you in
a single day. You are indeed at my mercy, and I will be merciful
if you will satisfy my demand."
He was trembling with emotion while he spoke and the desire to
kill the man before him was making a frightful struggle with his
priestly conscience; but conscience had the upper hand. Hamilton
stood gazing fixedly, pale as a ghost, his thoughts becoming more
and more clear and logical. He was in a bad situation. Every word
that Father Beret had spoken was true and went home with force.
There was no time for parley or subterfuge; the sword looked as
if, eager to find his heart, it could not be held back another
moment. But the wan, cold face of the girl had more power than the
rapier's hungry point.
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