Marion choked in his speech. Throwing his arms about at random, he called out:
"Schanvoch, where are you?"
"Here I am, close to you—"
"I see you no longer," he said in a sinking voice. "Lean my back against a tree—I am—smothering—"
With no little difficulty I did what Marion desired; his Herculean body was heavy. Finally, however, I succeeded in drawing him up with his back against the nearest tree. Reclined against it, Marion continued in a voice that steadily grew feebler:
"In the measure that—the ill temper of my friend Eustace increased—I sought to show myself even more friendly than usual towards him. I could understand his apprehensions. Already, when I was only a captain, he could not bring himself to treat me as his former companion at the anvil. When I became general and Chief of Gaul he took me for a potentate. As to myself, certain that I esteemed him none the less—I always laughed in his face at his rudeness—I laughed—I did wrong—the poor fellow was suffering. To make it short—to-day he said to me: 'Marion, it is a long time since we took a walk together, shall we take a stroll in the woods, near the city?' I had a conference with Victoria. But fearing to displease my friend Eustace, I wrote to the Mother of the Camps, excusing myself—and he and I started on our walk arm in arm. I was reminded of the days of our apprenticeship in the forest of Chartres—where we used to go to trap magpies. I felt buoyant—and despite my grey beard—knowing that nobody saw us—I indulged in all manner of boyish tricks in order to amuse Eustace. I mimicked, as in the days of our boyhood, the cry of—the magpies—by blowing upon a leaf held close to my lips. I did other monkey tricks of the same nature—It was singular—I never felt in better spirits than to-day—Eustace, on the contrary did not move—a muscle of his face—not—a smile could be extracted from him. We were a few steps from here, he behind me—he called me—I turned around—and you will see, Schanvoch, that there could not have been any wicked purpose on his part—only insanity—pure insanity. The moment that I turned around he threw himself upon me sword in hand—and—as he plunged the weapon into my side he cried: 'Do you recognize this sword, you who forged it yourself?' I admit—I was not a little surprised—I fell under the blow—I called out to my friend Eustace: 'What ails you? Explain yourself at least. Have I offended you in aught without knowing?' But I was only speaking—to the trees—the poor crazy man had vanished—leaving his sword beside me—another evidence of insanity—the weapon—you will notice—Schanvoch—the weapon—bore on the blade the inscription: 'Marion forged this sword for his dear friend Eustace.'"
These were the last intelligible words of the good and brave soldier. He expired a few minutes later uttering incoherent words, among which these recurred with greatest frequency:
"Eustace," "flee," "save yourself."
After Marion had given up the ghost, I hastened back to Mayence in order to notify Victoria of the occurrence, nor did I conceal from her that my suspicions again pointed to Tetrik as having a hand in the plot. The man, I explained, left again vacant the government of Gaul by the removal of Marion, after Victorin and his son were gotten out of the way. Although desolate by the death of Marion, my foster-sister combated my suspicions with regard to Tetrik. She reminded me that I myself, more than two months before the murder of Marion, was so struck by the expression of hatred and envy betrayed by the face and words of the captain's old companion, that I said to her before Tetrik that Marion must be very much blinded by his affection to fail to perceive that his friend was devoured by implacable jealousy. Victoria shared the opinion of the good Marion, that the crime to which he had fallen a victim had no other cause than the envious hatred of Eustace, who was driven to the point of insanity by the more recent elevation of his friend. Besides, a singular coincidence, on that same day my foster-sister received from Tetrik, then on his way to Italy, a letter in which he informed her that seeing his health was daily declining, the physicians saw but one chance of safety for him—a trip to some southern country. For that reason he was on the way to Rome with his son.
These facts, Tetrik's conduct since the death of Victorin, the touching letters that he wrote, together with what seemed to be the irrefutable arguments advanced by Victoria, once more overthrew my mistrust toward the Governor of Gascony. I also arrived at the conclusion, which was certainly justified on the face of the events, that, in view of the previous behavior of Eustace, the atrocious murder committed by him had no other motive than a savage jealousy, that was driven to the point of insanity by the recent distinction that fell to the lot of his friend.