With a moan Philip swayed and fell forward into the arms of Damour, still grasping his weapon. Grandjon-Larisse stooped to the injured man. Unloosing his fingers from the sword, Philip stretched up a hand to his enemy.
"I am hurt to death," he said. "Permit my compliments to the best swordsman I have ever known." Then with a touch of sorry humour he added: "You cannot doubt their sincerity."
Grandjon-Larisse was turning away when Philip called him back. "Will you carry my profound regret to the Countess Chantavoine?" he whispered. "Say that it lies with her whether Heaven pardon me."
Grandjon-Larisse hesitated an instant, then answered:
"Those who are in heaven, monseigneur, know best what Heaven may do."
Philip's pale face took on a look of agony. "She is dead—she is dead!" he gasped.
Grandjon-Larisse inclined his head, then after a moment, gravely said:
"What did you think was left for a woman—for a Chantavoine? It is not the broken heart that kills, but broken pride, monseigneur."
So saying, he bowed again to Philip and turned upon his heel.