“Oh!” I cried, understanding suddenly and looking down the empty road. “So that was the ci-devant Favras! I am glad to know his name, for I have an account to settle with him. So far from permitting him to take the horse, I had an impulse to murder him.”
“And why did you not?” Dubosq demanded. “That would at least have saved your own neck.”
“I had given him my word,” I explained, and related the dilemma in which I had found myself. “But even then,” I concluded, “I would have killed him had he not turned his back.”
Dubosq listened, looking at me keenly. At the last words he nodded, almost imperceptibly, as though he understood. Then he glanced moodily away across the field.
I followed his eyes and saw approaching us from the grove two men bearing the body of a third.
“Is that his work?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Dubosq; and fell silent until the bearers reached the road and placed the body on the grass beneath the tree. I saw with a shudder that the man had been stabbed in the back.
“Yes,” repeated Dubosq fiercely, “that is his work. He crept upon him from behind and struck him down. He did not hesitate because his victim’s back was turned. Oh, these traitors, these aristocrats, with their talk of honor!” and he shook his clenched fists above his head.
“But how did he escape?” I queried, for even yet I did not understand.
“How did he escape?” yelled Dubosq, his face purple. “He escaped because his wits are better than ours. There is that to be said for the aristocrats—their wits are better than ours, clods that we are! He murdered this man——”