"Yes, monsieur, yes, yes. I have him persuaded Just one little moment.
Monsieur La Mothe, NOW! Now!"
"No, Hugues, no, let me——"
"Damn you, man, would you murder the Dauphin for a scruple? Now! I say, Now!"
"I have a sword——"
But Hugues had caught up the slender cudgel dropped by Marcel in his flight for the stairs and was already in the doorway.
"If you want the Dauphin, come and take him. God save the Dauphin! France! France!" and drawing a deep breath he stood on guard, one wooden sword against a dozen of steel.
"Bravo, Hugues," cried La Follette from above. "Hold the scoundrels while you can, and God be with you. Come, La Mothe, come, come."
And what could La Mothe do but obey? For a moment he glanced this way and that, uncertain, drawn to the one man who stood alone against such odds, yet knowing that to aid him was the surest way to make Hugues' sacrifice unavailing. Then he jumped for the stairs; but not before the doorway was darkened; not before he heard the dull clash of steel upon wood; not before Hugues had stifled a cry which told that the offering up of the sacrifice had begun.
And as it began so it ended. But how desperately the breach was held, how desperately Hugues fought with his mockery of a sword, with his bare hands, with his very breast, they could only guess when he was found later with the staff in splinters, his palms and arms hacked and gashed, his bosom agape with dumb mouths which told their tale of love and splendid courage lavished to the utmost. He died with all his wounds in front; he died for loyalty, for love's sake, giving his life without a grudge. Could a Roland or a Charlemagne have done more?
Reaching forward La Follette seized La Mothe, dragging him up the last three stairs, "Draw, man, draw, we will fight them here." But La Mothe shook him off.