“Too well, indeed; Destouches himself could not have done better. I would you had given them less skill, mon ami.”
“’Twas Craik—my favorite stroke—in tierce,” he gasped, and then his head fell back against Jacquard. Presently he revived and looked at Barbara and Bras-de-Fer, while another smile played at the corner of his blue eye.
“Madame,” he whispered to Barbara—“madame, he has loved ye long and well. Take him to London and there serve him as a boucanier and renegado should be served. Take him prisoner to yer house and yer heart, and keep him there for as long as ye both shall live.” A spasm of pain shot across his features, and he clutched at his wound. “Bedad,” he said, “but the plaguy thing burns at me like an ember. It’s nearly over, I’m thinking. René,” he cried, “my dear man, if ye tell them at the barracks that I was brought to my death by the low thrust in tierce in the hands of such a lout, I’ll come from my grave and smite ye. An’ if ye see my brother, the Earl, ye may tell him for me—to send my pittance to—”
The effort had been too much for his waning strength. His eyes closed again. And this time they did not open.
[CHAPTER XVI]
MAROONED
Jacquard conducted Mistress Barbara aft to the cabin until the boat could be prepared. And Monsieur silently followed, his eyes dim with tears at the loss of this friend to whose helpful skill both he and Mistress Barbara owed their lives. When they were safe within, Jacquard blurted forth:
“It was the best I could do, monsieur, the very best I could do. The danger is not yet past. There is no safety for you or madame upon the same ship with Yan Gratz.”
Bras-de-Fer silently wrung his hands.