. . .  Death!  The skull and the hollow eyes stared him in the face.  He was dying!  But before Victor could recover and guard the vicomte lunged, and his point came out dully red between Victor’s shoulder-blades.  The lad stood perfectly still.  There was a question on his face rather than a sign of pain.  His weapon clanged upon the hardened clay of the floor.  He took a step toward madame, tottered, and fell at her feet.  He clutched the skirts of her Indian garb and pressed it convulsively to his bleeding lips.

“Gabrielle . . .  Gabrielle!” he murmured.  His head fell back loosely.  He was dead.  Gallant poet!

Madame’s flesh seemed turned into marble; she could not move, but leaned against the wall, her arms half extended on each side.

“See, Madame,” said the vicomte; “see what love does! . . .  It is sudden.  But do not worry; I too, have said my little part . . . not very well, either.”  He steadied himself by catching hold of the table.  The blood gushed from his wound, soaking his leg, and forming a pool on the clay.  “Why, he was worth more than them all, for all he scribbled verses.  Bah!  I have come the ragged way, and by the ragged way I go. . . .  It is a pity:  either men should be born blind or women without beauty.  The devil of the priests is in it all.  And this is what love does!”

The door darkened again, and the Chevalier, Nicot, Father Chaumonot and four soldiers came in hurriedly.  The Chevalier was first.  With a cry he dropped beside Victor.

“Lad, lad!” he cried in anguish.  “Speak to me, lad!” He touched the poet’s hands, and rose.  Like an angry lion he faced the vicomte.

“Ha!” said the vicomte, rousing from the numbness which was stealing away his senses.  “So it is you?  I had each hair on your head separate and standing; and but for a kiss you would now be mad.  To have come all this way and to have stopped a moment too long!  That is what they call irony.  But I would give my soul to ten Jesuit hells could I meet you once again with the sword.  You have always plucked the fruit out of my grasp.  We walked together, but the sun was always on you and the cloud on me.  Ah, well, your poet is dead . . . and I had no real enmity toward him. . . .  He was your friend.  He will write no more ballades, and rondeaux, and triolets; eh, Madame? . . .  Well, in a moment,” as if he heard a voice calling.  He balanced himself with difficulty.

Life returned to madame.  Sobbing she sank beside Victor, calling to him wildly, fondled his head, shook his warm but nerveless hands, kissed his damp forehead, her tears falling on his yellow hair.

“He is gone!” she said piteously.  “Victor is dead; he will not speak.  Poor boy, poor boy!”

They were strong men; the tender quick of pity had grown thick.  Yet they turned away.  Father Chaumonot raised her gently.

“Yes, my daughter, he is dead.  God will deal kindly with him, brave boy.”