Don Marcelo was now tinglingly awake.  Through the open window was blowing the clear night air.  The cannonading was still going on, prolonging the conflict way into the night.  Below the castle the soldiers were intoning a slow and melodious chant that sounded like a psalm.  From the interior of the edifice rose the whoopings of brutal laughter, the crash of breaking furniture, and the mad chase of dissolute pursuit.  When would this diabolical orgy ever wear itself down? . . .  For a long time he was not at all sleepy, but was gradually losing consciousness of what was going on around him when he was roused with a start.  Near him, on the same floor, a door had fallen with a crash, unable to resist a succession of formidable batterings.  This was followed immediately by the screams of a woman, weeping, desperate supplications, the noise of a struggle, reeling steps, and the thud of bodies against the wall.  He had a presentiment that it was Georgette shrieking and trying to defend herself.  Before he could put his feet to the floor he heard a man’s voice, which he was sure was the Keeper’s; she was safe.

“Ah, you villain!” . . .

Then the outbreak of a second struggle . . . a shot . . . silence!

Rushing down the hallway that ended at the stairway Desnoyers saw lights, and many men who came trooping up the stairs, bounding over several steps at a time.  He almost fell over a body from which escaped a groan of agony.  At his feet lay the Warden, his chest moving like a pair of bellows, his eyes glassy and unnaturally distended, his mouth covered with blood. . . .  Near him glistened a kitchen knife.  Then he saw a man with a revolver in one hand, and holding shut with the other a broken door that someone was trying to open from within.  Don Marcelo recognized him, in spite of his greenish pallor and wild look.  It was Blumhardt—­another Blumhardt with a bestial expression of terrifying ferocity and lust.

Don Marcelo could see clearly how it had all happened—­the debauchee rushing through the castle in search of his prey, the anxious father in close pursuit, the cries of the girl, the unequal struggle between the consumptive with his emergency weapon and the warrior triumphant.  The fury of his youth awoke in the old Frenchman, sweeping everything before it.  What did it matter if he did die? . . .

“Ah, you villain!” he yelled, as the poor father had done.

And with clenched fists he marched up to the German, who smiled coldly and held his revolver to his eyes.  He was just going to shoot him . . . but at that instant Desnoyers fell to the floor, knocked down by those who were leaping up the stairs.  He received many blows, the heavy boots of the invaders hammering him with their heels.  He felt a hot stream pouring over his face.  Blood! . . .  He did not know whether it was his own or that of the palpitating mortal slowly dying beside him.  Then he found himself lifted from the floor by many hands which pushed him toward a man.  It was His Excellency, with his uniform burst open and smelling of wine.  Eyes and voice were both trembling.