"God!" burst from the count's cracked lips. His sword was rolling at his feet. It was the end. He shut his eyes.
The marquis drew back his arm to send the blade home, and there came a change. At the very moment when victory must have been his, he staggered, a black mist filming his eyes. The magic blade slipped from his grasp and clanged to the floor. He tried to save himself, but he could not. He fell by the side of his sword and lay there silent. His strength, had been superhuman, the last flare of a burnt-out fire.
"Good God, and I never touched him!" gasped, D'Hérouville. He was covered with a cold sweat. "A moment more and I had been a dead man!" He brushed his eyes, and his hand shook with a transient palsy.
There was a tableau: the aged noble stretched out beside his rapier, D'Hérouville leaning against the wall and wild-eyed … and a black-robed figure standing in the doorway.
"Have you killed him?" asked the black-robed figure, stepping into the room.
D'Hérouville gazed at him, incapable of speaking.
"Have you killed him, I say?" repeated Brother Jacques.
D'Hérouville choked, and presently found his voice. "I have not even touched him. God is witness! He has been stricken by a vapor, or he is dead."
"It is well for you, Monsieur, that your sword did not touch him. You had better go."
The count's hand shook so that he could hardly put his rapier into the scabbard. With a dazed glance at the marquis, who had not yet stirred, with another glance at the priest, he passed out, holding the flat of his hand against his side.