my eyes, dazzled; it was as if I beheld a heavenly host.  When I opened them again the folk at my side were kneeling as the cross came by.  I knelt, too, but the holy sign spoke to me only of the crucifix I had trampled on, of Yeux-gris and his lies.  I prayed to the good God to let me kill Yeux-gris, prayed, kneeling there on the cobbles, with a fervour I had never reached before.  When I rose I ran on at redoubled speed, never doubting that a just God would strengthen my hand, would make my cause his.

I entered the little court.  The shutter was fastened, as before, but I had my dagger, and could again free the bolt.  I could creep up-stairs and mayhap stab Yeux-gris before they were aware of my coming.  But that was not my purpose.  I was no bravo to strike in the back, but the instrument of a righteous vengeance.  He must know why he died.

One to three, I had no chance.  But if I knocked openly it was likely that Yeux-gris, being my patron, would be the one to come down to me.  Then there was the opportunity, man to man.  If it were Grammont or the lackey, I would boldly declare that I would give my news to none but Yeux-gris.  In pursuance of this plan I was pounding vigorously on the door when a voice behind me cried out blithely: 

“So you are back at last, Felix Broux”

At the first word I wheeled around.  In the court entrance stood Yeux-gris, smiling and debonair.  He had laid aside his sword, and held on his left arm a basket containing a loaf of bread, a roast capon, and some bottles, for all the world like an honest prentice doing his master’s errand.

“Yes, I am back!” I shouted.  “Back to kill you, parricide!”

He had a knife in his belt; the fight was even.  I was upon him, my dagger raised to strike.  He made no motion to draw, and I remembered in a flash he could not:  his right arm was powerless.  He sprang back, flinging up his burdened left as a shield, and my blade buried itself in the side of the basket.

As I stabbed I heard feet thundering down the stairs within.  I jerked my knife from the wicker and turned to face this new enemy.  “Grammont,” I thought, and that my end had come.

The door flew open and, shoulder to shoulder like brothers, out rushed Grammont and—­Lucas!

My fear was drowned in amaze.  I forgot to run and stood staring in sheer, blank bewilderment.  Crying “Damned traitor!” Gervais, with drawn sword, charged at me.

I had only the little dagger.  I owe my life to Yeux-gris’s quick wits and no less quick fingers.  Dropping the basket, he snatched a bottle from it and hurled it at Gervais.

“Ware, Grammont!” shouted Lucas, springing forward.  But the missile flew too quickly.  It struck Grammont square on the forehead, and he went down like a slaughtered ox.

We looked, not at him, but at Lucas—­Lucas, the duke’s deferential servant, the coward and skulker, Grammont’s hatred, standing here by Grammont’s side, glaring at us over his naked sword.