The assailant pulled his blade free and darted back against the wall to face the two of us.  But the sword of the wounded man fell from his loose fingers.

“I’m out of it,” he cried to me; “I go for aid.”  And as his late combatant sprang forward to engage me, I heard him running off, stumbling where I had.

There had been little light toward the last in the court of the house in the Rue Coupejarrets, and less under the windows of the Hotel de Lorraine; but here was none at all, I had to use my sword solely by the feel of his against it, and I underwent chilling qualms lest presently, without in the least knowing how it got there, I should find his point sticking out of my back.  I could hardly believe he was not hitting me; I began to prickle in half a dozen places, and knew not whether the stings were real or imaginary.  But one was not imaginary; my shoulder which Lucas had pinked and the doctor bandaged was throbbing painfully.  I fancied that in my earlier combat the wound had opened again and that I was bleeding to death; and the fear shook me.  I lunged wildly, and I had been sent to my account in short order had not at this moment one of the other pair near us, as it afterward appeared, driven his weapon square through his vis-a-vis’s breast.

“I am done for.  Run who can!” he cried as he fell.  The sword snapped in two against the paving-stones; he rolled over and lay still, his face in the dirt.

My encounterer, with a shout to his single remaining comrade, made off down the lane.  On my part, I was very willing to let him depart in peace.

The clash of swords up the lane had ceased at the stricken man’s cry, and out of the gloom came the sound of footfalls fainter and fainter.  I deemed that the battle was over.

The champion came toward me, three white patches visible for his face and hands; the rest of him but darkness moving in darkness.  He held a sword rifled from the enemy, and advanced on me hesitatingly, not sure whether friend or foe remained to him.  I felt that an explanation was due from me, but in my ignorance as to who he was and who his foes were, and why they had been fighting him and why we had been fighting them, I stood for a moment confused.  It is hard to open conversation with a shadow.

He spoke first, in a voice husky from his exertion: 

“Who are you?”

“A friend,” I said.  “My master and I saw two men fighting four—­we came to help the weaker side.  Your friend was hurt, but he got away safe to fetch aid.”

The unknown made a rapid step toward me, crying, “What—­”

But at the word M. Etienne emerged from the shadows.

“Who lives?” he called out.  “You, Felix?”

“Not hurt, monsieur.  And you?”

“Not a scratch.  Nor did I scratch my man.  Permit me to congratulate you, monsieur l’inconnu, on our coming up when we did.”

The unknown said one word: