“No,” he said doggedly; “you shall not touch him.”
“Stand aside, Monsieur,” said Madame, determined to vent her rage on some one.
“Madame,” said von Mitter, “I will shoot down the first man who lays a hand on Monsieur Carewe.”
The princess, her heart beating wildly at the sudden knowledge that lay written on the inner vision, a faintness stealing away her sight, leaned back against the prelate.
“He is dying,” she whispered; “he is dying for me!”
Maurice was now in the grasp of the final delirium. “Come on!” he cried; “come on! I will show you how a brave man can die. Come on, Messieurs Medals and Clothes! Aye, who will go out with me?” He raised the saber, and it caught the flickering light as it trailed a circle above his head. He stumbled toward them, sweeping the air with the blade. Suddenly there came a change. He stopped. The wild expression faded from his face; a surprised look came instead. The saber slipped from his fingers and clanged on the floor. He turned and looked at the princess, and that glance conveyed to her the burden of his love. “Mademoiselle....” His knees doubled, he sank, rolled face downward, and a dark stain appeared and widened on the marble floor.
“Go, Madame,” said the prelate. “This palace is indeed a tomb.” He felt the princess grow limp on his arm. “Go.”
“Maurice!” cried Fitzgerald, springing to the side of the fallen man. “My God! Maurice!”