“You will note, de Courcelles,” said he, “that your man, Boucher, has thrown his life away.”

“He’s not my man, de Galisonniere!”

“You compel me to repeat, de Courcelles, that your man, Boucher, has thrown away his own life.  It’s not well to deal a foul blow at a consummate swordsman.  But I suppose it’s hard for a murderer to change his instincts.  Ah, what a stroke!  What a stroke!  It was so swift that I saw only a flash of light!  And so, our friend, Boucher, has sped!  And when you seek the kernel of the matter, de Courcelles, it was you who helped to speed him!”

De Courcelles, unable to bear more, strode away.  Boucher was lying upon his back, and the bravo had fought his last fight.  Willet looked down at him, shook his head a little, but he did not feel remorse.  The ghosts of the untrained boy, Gaston Lafitte, of the sick man, Raoul de Bassempierre, and of Raymond de Neville, who had been murdered at dice, guided his hand, and it was they who had struck the blow.  Robert helped him to put on the waistcoat and coat, as a group of men, Bigot, Cadet, and Pean at their head, invaded the garden.

“What’s this!  What’s this!” exclaimed Bigot, staring at the motionless prostrate figure with the closed eyes.

Then de Galisonniere spoke up, and Robert was very grateful to him.

“It was done by Mr. Willet, as you see, sir, and if ever a man had justification he has it.  The quarrel was forced upon him, and, during a pause, Boucher struck a foul blow, which, had it not been for Mr. Willet’s surpassing skill, would have proved mortal and would have stained the honor of all Frenchmen in Quebec.  Colonel de Courcelles will bear witness to the truth of all that I have said, will you not, de Courcelles?”

“Yes,” said de Courcelles, though he shook in his uniform with anger.

“And so will Count Jean de Mezy.  He too is eager to give testimony and support me in what I say.  Is it not so, de Mezy?”

“Yes,” said de Mezy, the purple spots in his face deepening.

“Then,” said the Intendant, “I see nothing left to do but bury Boucher.  He was but a quarrelsome fellow with none too good a record in France.  And keep it from the ladies at present.”

He returned with his courtiers to the house, and the dancing continued, but Robert felt that he could not stay any longer.  Such cynicism shocked him, and paying his respects to Bigot and his friends, he left with Tayoga and the hunter for the Inn of the Eagle.

“It was a great fight,” said Tayoga, as they stood outside and breathed the cool, welcome air again.  “What Hayowentha was with the bow and arrow the Great Bear is with the sword.”

“I don’t like to take human life,” said the hunter, “and it scarcely seems to me that I’ve done it now.  I feel as if I had been an instrument in the hands of others, giving to Boucher the punishment deferred so long.”

“There will be no trouble about it,” said Tayoga.  “I read the face of Bigot and no anger was there.  It may be that he was glad to get rid of the man Boucher.  The assassin becomes at times a burden.”