“It is murder,” cried the boy. “I call all to witness it is murder!”
Some exclamations of contempt alone answered him. Rallying, under the shame, to a last agony of resolution, he drew his sword and advanced. His under lip was shaking and dribbling; the bosom of his linen was torn; he looked like a death-sick girl.
The blades crossed. Cartouche held his motionless a moment while the other’s vibrated on it like a castanet. An answering small laugh went up. Then he engaged deftly, in a wicked little prelude of cat’s-play; and then—
It was at least as great a shock to him as to any other to hear a sudden leap and rush, and see his sword torn from his hand and flung to the ground. For the moment, a fury of hell flew to his eyes and blinded them; the next, he saw Louis-Marie standing before him, white, and terrible, and denunciatory.
“Save thou thine own soul!” shrieked Saint-Péray, “nor lose it, saving this child’s. O, my brother! drive me not to this last despair of cursing all I have loved. Give me the boy’s life.”
A stun of utter stupefaction had fallen on the company. For the instant everything stood stricken—a strange and pregnant tableau. But in the still hearts of all was a terror of the inevitable crash which must rend in an instant the appalling hush.
To their confusion, scarcely less astounded, the crash did not follow; but, instead—miracle of things!—the disarmed one drew a deep breath, and smiled.
“It is a trifle; take it, my brother!” he said.
Even with the word he saw Saint-Péray sway where he stood. He darted forward and put a strenuous arm about him.
“What is it, Louis?” he whispered.