Saying these words, he whipped out his sword and darted upon his former tutor.
Esther uttered a feeble cry, but the cry was lost in a frightful crash. A neighboring wall, undermined by the fire, reeled and fell, striking upon the roof of the house. A rafter in falling struck the window and shattered it. A dense, stifling smoke, starred with a myriad sparks, filled the chamber.
Meanwhile Lebeau, who had never for an instant lost sight of Mowbray's movements, had darted backward a pace or two, thus placing a table between himself and his adversary, at the same time drawing his sword in his turn. Now they were equally matched. It was he who had first placed a fencing-foil in the young man's hand, he who had taught him with infinite patience all the secrets of the French and Italian schools of fencing. In those very schools had they studied the noble art in company, not disdaining the lessons of resident masters. They had fenced together every day for ten years, but had never succeeded in scratching each other, so easy was it for either to parry the thrusts of the other and to divine his intentions. However, it was necessary that one of these two men, who had lived so long together as master and disciple, almost as father and son, should take the other's life; and each bore written upon his very eyes the fierce desire, the implacable longing, to kill.
It was not a duel, but a combat. Shifting their footing, retreating precipitately or lunging unexpectedly, profiting by every obstacle, bending forward until they almost squatted upon the ground, or bounding into the air, every few moments they would desist, watching each other, panting, bathed in perspiration, their features rigid as if petrified with the same mortal intent. The furniture lay about them upset and broken, and all the while the smoke continued to thicken. It grew suffocating and darkened the chamber, recently so bright, while at the same time it altered the character of the combat, which threatened to become a blind struggle in the dark. Not a word was exchanged; nothing was audible but the stifled oaths, the short, harsh breathing that rattled in the throat, the hissing of the crossed swords, that metallic sound which freezes the marrow in the bones like a death-knell. In the adjoining chamber old Maud chanted:—
"Saul hath slain a thousand, but David hath slain ten thousand! Glory be to the God of hosts! Deus Sabaoth! Alleluia!"
Outside the house the tumult of the horrible fête had waned and expired in a vague, distant wail, intermingled with the dying shrieks of the participants.
Slowly Esther raised herself upon her elbow; with eyes dilated with horror she watched the two men as they pursued and evaded each other, leaping like stags in the ruddy smoke which was neither day nor night. She fancied herself the dupe of some hideous nightmare.
Neither of the combatants seemed aware of her presence, since both held their sight riveted upon the tips of their swords as if their very souls had passed into the glittering points. But Lebeau was weakening, and he knew it. His grasp trembled and his sight grew dim from minute to minute. A cold sweat pearled upon his brow, which he attempted to wipe away with a swift gesture of his left arm; but the beads grew more abundant, dripped from his eyebrows to his eyelids, and obscured his vision. His weary feet struck the furniture; already had he stumbled once; a sort of vertigo caused surrounding objects to whirl about him. It was death!... Then in sheer desperation he thrust out blindly.
Esther saw the two men run each other through, fall almost one on top of the other, roll heavily over upon the floor, and lie motionless. Again she lost consciousness, and for a time no sound disturbed the silence of the chamber save the chanting of the mad woman.
However, Lebeau raised himself, and strove to collect his ideas and strength. He was losing great quantities of blood, but the welfare of Esther was the only clear thought which remained amidst the baleful giddiness which had invaded his brain. Save Esther! But how? Bear her away in his arms? He could not do it. Had he even the strength left to crawl to the stairs, drag himself down and through the alley in search of help? Yes, there was no alternative. But in the mean time would not the fire reach her in its swift course? Would not the smoke asphyxiate the poor child? Stimulated by this alarming thought, the unhappy man began to drag himself by his bruised and bleeding hands. Every now and then he was forced to pause, exhausted, fainting, believing that the end had come. "Esther!"—that name alone revived him. His daughter! his child! No, he would not leave her to die like that. As for himself, what mattered it? But she, so young, so beautiful,—she, for whom life was so full of promise! Thus he advanced step by step, lowering himself from stair to stair amidst the most atrocious agony.