“That clears!” cried he.
“Fly, master!” cried Rémy.
“Diana must save herself first,” murmured he.
“Take care,” cried Rémy again, as four men rushed in through the door from the staircase. Bussy saw himself between two troops, but his only cry was, “Ah! Diana!”
Then, without losing a second, he rushed on the four men; and taken by surprise, two fell, one dead, one wounded.
Then, as Monsoreau advanced, he retreated again behind his rampart.
“Push the bolts, and turn the key,” cried Monsoreau, “we have him now.” During this time, by a great effort, Rémy had dragged himself before Bussy, and added his body to the rampart.
There was an instant’s pause. Bussy looked around him. Seven men lay stretched on the ground, but nine remained. And seeing these nine swords, and hearing Monsoreau encouraging them, this brave man, who had never known fear, saw plainly before him the image of death, beckoning him with its gloomy smile.
“I may kill five more,” thought he, “but the other four will kill me. I have strength for ten minutes’ more combat; in that ten minutes let me do what man never did before.”
And rushing forward, he gave three thrusts, and three times he pierced the leather of a shoulder-belt, or the buff of a jacket, and three times a stream of blood followed.