He seemed to have strength for nothing more; yet at the end, before life left him, one strange last change came over him.  Both his rough passion and the terrible abasement of defeat seemed to leave him, and his face became again the face of a well-bred, self-controlled man.  There was a helpless effort at a shrug of his shoulders, a scornful slight smile on his lips, and a look of recognition, almost of friendliness, almost of humor, in his eyes, as he said to me, who still held his head: 

“Mon Dieu, but I’ve made a mess of it, Mr. Aycon!”

And I do not know that anyone could better this epitaph which the Duke of Saint-Maclou composed for himself in the last words he spoke this side the grave.

CHAPTER XXI.

A Passing Carriage.

When I saw that the Duke of Saint-Maclou was dead, I laid him down on the sands, straightening him into a seemly posture; and I closed his eyes and spread his handkerchief over his face.  Then I began to walk up and down with folded arms, pondering over the life and fate of the man and the strange link between us which the influence of two women had forged.  And I recognized also that an hour ago the greater likelihood had been that I should be where he lay, and he be looking down on me. Dis aliter visum. His own sin had stretched him there, and I lived to muse on the wreck—­on the “mess” as he said in self-mockery—­that he had made of his life.  Yet, as I had felt when I talked to him before, so I felt now, that his had been the hand to open my eyes, and from his mighty but base love I had learned a love as strong and, as I could in all honesty say, more pure.

The sun was quite gone now, the roll of the tide was nearer, and water gleamed between us and the Mount.  But we were beyond its utmost rise, save at a spring tide, and I waited long, too engrossed in my thoughts to be impatient for Marie’s return.  I did not even cross the wall to see how Bontet fared under the blow I had given him—­whether he were dead, or lay still stunned, or had found life enough to crawl away.  In truth, I cared not then.

Presently across the sands, through the growing gloom, I saw a group approaching me.  Marie I knew by her figure and gait and saw more plainly, for she walked a little in front as though she were setting the example of haste.  The rest followed together; and, looking past them, I could just discern a carriage which had been driven some way on to the sands.  One of the strangers wore top-boots and the livery of a servant.  As they approached, he fell back, and the remaining two—­a man and a woman on his arm—­came more clearly into view.  Marie reached me some twenty yards ahead of them.

“I met no one till I was at the inn,” she said, “and then this carriage was driving by; and I told them that a gentleman lay hurt on the sands, and they came to help you to carry him up.”