“Why did not others see your wondrous shaft from the hand of God?” I asked.

“Because, noble lord,” answered the friar, “our eyes were looking upward in prayer.  All others were fixed on this worldly combat.”

The explanation actually seemed to explain.

Just then the men who had been sent out to seek evidence concerning the shot returned, and reported that no arquebuse was to be found.  The lists were surrounded by an open field, and a man endeavoring to escape would have been seen.

“Did you search all places of possible concealment for an arquebuse?” asked the duke.

“All, my lord,” answered the men, who were Burgundians and to be trusted.

Faith in the friars absurd story was rapidly gaining ground, and several of the Italian courtiers, emboldened by encouragement, affirmed upon their hope of salvation and their knightly honor that they, too, had witnessed the descent of the shaft from heaven.  Touch a man on his superstitions, and he will believe anything you tell him.  If you assure him that an honest friend has told you so and so, he may doubt you, but tell him that God tells you, and he will swallow your hook.  If you would have your lie believed, tell a great one.

Charles, more credulous and gullible than I should have believed, turned to Hymbercourt.  He spoke reverentially, being, you understand, in the presence of a miracle:—­

“This is a wondrous happening, my lord,” said the duke.

“If it happened, Your Grace,” returned Hymbercourt, “it certainly was marvellous.”

“Don’t you think it did happen?  Do not you believe that this bolt came from the hand that was seen by these worthy friars?” asked the duke.

“The shaft surely did not come from a just God, my lord,” returned Hymbercourt.

“Whence, then, did it come?” asked the duke.  “No arquebuse has been found, and a careful scrutiny has been made.”

“Aye!” echoed the friars.  “Whence else did it come?  Whence, my Lord d’Hymbercourt, whence?”

I had noticed our Irish servant Michael standing near one of the friars.  At this point in the conversation the Irishman plucked me by the sleeve, pointed to a friar, and whispered a word in my ear.  Like a stone from a catapult I sprang on the friar indicated, threw him to the ground, and drew from under his black cassock an arquebuse.

“Here is the shaft from God!” I exclaimed, holding the arquebuse up to view.  Then I kneeled on the prostrate wretch and clutched his throat.  Anger gathered in my brain as lightning clusters about a mountain top.  I threw aside the arquebuse and proceeded to kill the canting mendicant.  I do not know that I killed him; I hope I did.  I cannot speak with certainty on that point, for I was quickly thrown away from him by the avenging mob that rushed upon us and tore the fellow limb from limb.  The other friars were set upon by the populace that had witnessed the combat from without the lists, and were beaten so unmercifully that one of them died.  Of the other’s fate I know nothing, but I have my secret desires.