By the flame of the burning coals, which cast a bluish light through the room, I could dimly see the police-officers crouched over the body of a man in his shirt-sleeves; one held him by the throat, the knees of the other rested upon his chest; Madoc was roughly clasping the handcuffs on his wrists. The man lay as if lifeless, save that from time to time one of his great legs, naked from knee to ankle, was raised and struck the floor with a convulsive movement. His eyes were starting from their sockets—a blood-stained foam had gathered upon his lips.
Hardly had I lighted the candle when the officers started back with an exclamation:
"Our dean!"
And all three rose to their feet, looking at each other with pale faces.
The bloodshot eye of the assassin turned towards Madoc, his lips moved, but only after several seconds I could hear him murmur:
"What a dream!—Good God! what a dream!"
Then a sigh, and he lay motionless again.
I drew near to look at him. Yes, it was he, the man who had overtaken us on the road to Heidelberg, and advised us to turn back. Perhaps even then he had a presentiment that we would be the cause of his ruin. Madoc, who had recovered from his surprise, seeing that he did not move, and that a thread of blood was oozing along the dusty floor, bent over him and tore asunder the bosom of his shirt; he had stabbed himself to the heart with his huge knife.
"Eh!" said Madoc, with a sinister smile. "Monsieur the dean has cheated the gallows. He knew where to strike, and has not missed his mark. Do you stay here," he continued to us. "I will go and inform the provost."
I remained with the two police agents, watching the corpse.